


How to Save a Life

by Ttime42



Series: Invasion AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Character Death, Collars, Doctor John Watson, Epic Friendship, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Horses, Kneeling, Lawn Gnome, Leashes, Lestrade has the patience of a saint, Non-Sexual Slavery, Original Character(s), Politics, Poor Everyone, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Preseries, Slavery, Social Media, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Whipping, World Domination, Worldbuilding, stealing from the police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 59,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an injured war vet recently returned to a London very different from the one he left behind. An impulse purchase of a slave leads them both down a long path of friendship, healing and recovery. Set in my 'Invasion' verse. Gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I want to reiterate here that this is an extreme AU. Dystopia, slavery, crazy laws, the works (any readers out there familiar with my other NCIS fic in this AU know what sort of things to expect. You don’t need to have read that one first though). I'm also the first to admit that I'm not the strongest case writer, but, I tried. This is the longest story I've ever written (yay!) and as usual, constructive polite criticism is welcome. Enjoy!

It began when China discovered a new kind of element deep in the Yellow River. They called it Jing Manna-Chi, or 'life-giving energy.' From that element, scientists in Beijing figured out a way to synthesize and process it to create a clean, green, energy source that replaced fossil fuels. China exported the new material to other countries, and within a matter of months, people on every continent were clamoring for more. It burned hotter, lasted longer, and was much better for the environment than fossil fuels. The new fuel was tightly regulated and exported and China and her allies, deemed 'The Republic' became the world's most powerful country in a matter of years. People moved away from limited fossil fuels to embrace the seemingly endless supply of clean energy. The Republic grew wealthier, the armies grew stronger, and they soon controlled a generous portion of the world's economy. Many countries floundered under their control. Some disappeared entirely.

When Chinese leaders discovered fertile pockets of Jing Manna-Chi in other places on the globe, they marched in, created mines to access the element, and used brutal tactics to force people from the local populations into slavery to work the mines.

People dubbed the riots and wars that took place to protest The Republic's sudden and alarming rise to power as The Fall, referring to the fall of civilization as people knew it. Thousands died. Once proud cities burned to ash. People fled and scattered when those in positions of power were unable to hold back the driving dragon force of The Republic's power and greed for the element.

When the dust settled, when Republic leaders had the whole world on a leash firmly fisted in their palms, they built more mines. All over the world, from the Appalachians to the Alps, deepwater mining off the coasts of Argentina and Morocco, to remote posts in Siberia, The Republic sought out the element and sent people there to work.  
As slavery became the norm, previous government organizations—England's MI6, Japan's NPA, and the US's FBI, CIA, and NCIS branches—disintegrated and the states and countries were dissolved and organized into small divisions to be governed by a single person, called a laoban. Washington D.C. was one of those divisions, as was London. First world countries struggled the hardest to deal with their new lot in life. Local populations didn't take kindly to being owned.

Every able-bodied, healthy citizen under the age of forty and over age twenty was deemed a slave, and their Republic-assigned slave serial numbers were dropped in a pool to be drawn out at random—those chosen worked the mines. It wasn't long before people started snapping up new slaves for their own personal use, using any means possible to keep them docile. The idea of personal slaves caught on quickly, and those who could afford it eagerly bought slaves for themselves. The Fall was in 2007. The year is now 2010.


	2. Meetings

John Watson stepped through the revolving glass door, out of the customs area of Heathrow and into the empty airport lobby. The feeling of being a civilian again was weighing awkwardly on his mind, like wearing a heavy and off balance hat. He set his thick duffel bag, dusty with desert grime, on the white tile floor. His shot shoulder twinged in pain, the skin itchy and unused to being uncovered by a thick wad of bandages, and he flexed his hand. Despite the way the world had changed (gone to hell, it sounded more like), the airport was more or less exactly how he'd left it. He looked around. A uniformed worker was emptying a barrel-sized bin. Crisp employees stood behind the ticket counters and a few passengers waited in line, bags in tow. Hope sparked in his chest. Maybe it hadn't happened here. Maybe everything he'd heard about China and their complete and utter world domination on the news and from his COs was wrong. Maybe the emergency flight he'd had out of Kandahar wasn't such an emergency after all.

The people in line at the counter shifted and John saw it. A glimpse of a dark strip around the pale throat of a man in a suit. It was unmistakably a collar. A sort of horrified dread seized John's insides. He swallowed. _Jesus._ It _had_ happened. He looked at the employees behind the counter, two young women. Collars, both of them. _Shit._ John looked at the bin man, easily in his sixties, who was now ambling past with his trolley of cleaning supplies. No collar. He was over forty, that's why. _I won't need one either, because I am, was, a soldier_ , John mused. But what about the people that did? Good God. A wrinkled, blue and red and white piece of paper fluttered out of the passing bin bag and landed at John's feet. He picked it up reflexively and opened it:

_Get_ _Angry_ _and_ _Crush_ _The Republic_

It was a propaganda poster. The words were set against a Union flag and the style was reminiscent of the old 'Keep Calm and Carry On' posters. At the bottom were the words _PFFS: People for the Freedom of Slaves._ John stared at it for a few moments, trying to wrap his head around all this. Had he left the war behind or come back to a new one?

" _Now boarding flight 202 to St. Lucia…"_

The PA blared overhead in a dull drone voice. St. Lucia. That might be nice. Bright. Exotic. Colorful. Exciting. Not here. Had The Republic's power reached that far? He didn't know. John took a deep breath that was nearly a sigh. He re-crumpled the page and shoved it in a pocket. The white-grey English sun filtered through the clouds, dulling the wide lobby and everything in it with silver watery shadows. Flat. Depressing. No one was here to pick him up or meet him. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. On one hand, it was okay. He thought painfully of Harry‒she wasn't old enough to be a free person, but he had no idea where she was. Besides her, there was no one to meet him. His parents had passed before he went to war. He had no friends in London‒no one he could call to pick him up at the airport, anyway. So on one hand it was fine and he was expecting it, but at the same time, it hurt having no one. No one would care if he arrived home (his new address typed on a piece of paper tucked in his bag) and no would know if he left or even if he died. Maybe that would be easier anyway. With a sigh, John hefted his bag and headed for the general taxi area.

_One month later…_

John put his cane down on the pavement and took a small, shuffling step forward. He grit his teeth and repeated, taking another small step. God, he hated this cane. Hated his stupid limp. Hated this stupid world for changing so dramatically while he was away, fighting to protect it and preserve it. The Republic had come along like a roaring freight train, plowing into all their lives and flinging everything into death and chaos and disarray. No one could have stopped their sudden lust for power because no one saw it coming.

It really was real, and it was taking _a lot_ of getting used to. John knew that, in a way, he was fortunate. His being in the military, away on active duty prevented him from being enslaved. Despite being within the age 20 to 40 range (just barely) that The Republic craved, his status as an active soldier, then a wounded discharged soldier, exempted him from being thrown in the lottery that determined who automatically became a slave and thus, was a candidate for the mines. He found it ironic that he was free from becoming one of The Republic’s enslaved dogs because of the very fact that he was a trained soldier. If anything, they should have ensured the people trained in combat wouldn't have any power at all and would be prime candidates for slavery, right? But what did he know? He wasn't a power-hungry dictatorship. He was a free person, but that didn’t make seeing what other people were doing to their fellow citizens any easier to bear.

To put it mildly, citizens seemed to have mixed feelings about how they felt about slavery. There were those who jumped on the idea and embraced it wholeheartedly; a sort of return of the Edwardian mentality, only this time with slaves and no laws to protect them. For the most part though, John was glad to see, people fought it. The poster from _PFFS_ was just one of many grassroots organizations that were fighting passionately for the fall of The Republic and the freedom of all the slaves. News was tightly regulated, but social media was a powerful tool, and even The Republic couldn't stop all the independent blogging platforms and newspapers from sprouting up out of the rubble of the first world nations. John knew from what he’d seen that other former first world countries—particularly Japan and the US—were struggling to accommodate so many new lifestyles.

It was hard enough coming back home from Afghanistan and seeing London in shambles from all the protests and rioting that had taken place over the past three years. Entire streets of buildings had burned down, leaving vacant lots and charred debris. Walls were rife with graffiti. Rats and foxes were more plentiful than ever and reeking garbage clogged the gutters. It was disgusting. Big Ben was missing a hand. The remaining one was fixed on '12.' The Republic had been very punctual in their attack, apparently. One of the towers on Tower Bridge was half missing, the rubble crumbled into the Thames underneath. Lord Nelson’s column was toppled and the surrounding fountains in Trafalgar were dry and crumbling. The British Museum was surrounded with barbed wire and John hoped the priceless artifacts inside were alright. Seeing London aching like this was hard enough, but the hardest part for John was seeing her people. People went to work with their heads down and their belongings kept close. They looked at each other with sideways glances, the air thick with suspicion and distrust. The weirdest thing though, was that older citizens, some of them, now lead younger ones, slaves, around on leashes. _That_ was…bizarre. People—smart, educated people were reduced to the status of animals, lead around like stupid pets and treated like slaves. They _were_ slaves now. The Republic had decreed it, and The Republic was in charge now. It was like something out of a bad nightmare and none of it was helping John’s PTSD any.

The Republic had instilled their government right away, putting their own man on the throne in Buckingham Palace. John had heard a hundred rumors regarding the whereabouts of the royal family. Everything from “they’re in hiding in Switzerland” to “they’re all dead” to “they’re behind it all and this is a huge conspiracy” to “we’ve slipped into the matrix and aliens are controlling our brains.” The man in charge of London (rather, Quadrant B, Vicinity 1 as it was now called) was named Jiao-Long and was the half-sibling of Ching-Lan, the laoban who controlled the former Washington DC area in America. The whole situation was pretty fucked up, and England didn't enjoy being owned by another country. There was an air of hostility and tense fear in the air as thick as the fog off the Thames.

John turned and headed into Russell Square Gardens. It was early morning rush hour and he didn’t want to walk slowly and get in the way of people who were heading to work. Who actually had important places to be. John hadn’t been clopping along with his cane for more than ten minutes when he heard a voice. “John? John Watson?”

John stopped and turned at the unfamiliar voice, laying eyes an equally as unfamiliar man.

“Stamford?” The guy said, “Mike Stamford?”

Recognition flooded John and he stuck his hand out to shake hands. “Mike—yes, hello.”

“I know," he glanced down at himself with a self deprecating grin. "I got fat. What have you been up to? I thought were off getting shot at somewhere, what happened?”

John blinked. “I got shot.”

Soon they were sitting on a bench, nursing hot coffees.

“You still at Bart’s?” John asked.

“Yeah, I was teaching for a while, but…”

“No one to teach now. Anyone who would have been a student is now a slave.” John said bitterly.

Mike didn’t say anything.

“What the hell happened, Mike? When I left, China had just discovered that element in the river. The jing…whatsis. I get back and it’s _this._ ” John waved a hand, indicating the general city and it’s state of decay.

“It happened fast.” Mike said. “I’ve been lucky. People always need doctors. I’ve stayed employed and,” he chuckled grimly, “turned out to be another perk to getting older—I’m not a slave. A selfish perk, but people take what they can get now.” Mike sipped his coffee. “There were riots at the beginning—hell, battles. Entire streets burned. People died.”

“Jesus.” John muttered. “All for this resource? All so young people could be enslaved to work in the mines?”

Mike nodded. “That went over about as well as expected. There used to be videos online of the destruction. People made blogs and used Twitter and Facebook to try and band people together to fight back, but…I doubt most of those videos are still available. It was bloody, it was brutal. People still fight it. Riots still break out now and then but they’re always crushed quickly.”

“Fuck.” John took a gulp of the coffee, ignoring the burn down his throat.

Mike looked at his watch and sighed.

“If you need to go, don’t let me stop you.” John said.

“No. No big deal. I’m supposed to go pick up a slave but…” Mike waved the notion away and drank his coffee. “I don’t need one. Or want one.”

“A slave?” John echoed. “ _Your_ slave?”

“Yeah." Mike was sheepish and John raised his brows in interest. "See, I was called in to Bart’s late one night last week to do an emergency operation on a patient who had just come in from a car crash. I did it, she survived. It turns out she was the wife of the Prime Minister of Bhutan.”

"Really."

“Yeah. Mr. Prime Minister was so pleased I saved her that he bought me a slave to show his thanks.” Mike sounded irritated. “Just a random slave out of the pool. I've never met him. I don't know his name. I don’t know what the hell to do with him, but he’s mine and he's on hold for me.”

“Mike.” John interrupted. “Don’t take him. Let him go free.”

Mike shook his head. “Not that simple. I can’t free a slave. No one can.”

“Why not?”

“The slaves aren’t ours to free.” Mike explained. “All the slaves belong to The Republic. They allow free citizens to own and keep slaves to keep us happy, in theory, and the slaves under their collective thumb. The Republic doesn’t have to spend the resources and time to keep their pool of labor suppressed if they can get their free people to do it for them. Free people use slaves however they want and get used to having them around, depend on them, and pretty soon free people are working just as hard as The Republic to keep them suppressed. It works out very neatly for them.”

“That…is fucked up.” John said.

“Yeah.”

They stood up and threw away their empty cups. As horrified as John was by all this new information, he was also perversely curious. “Where do you go to get him?”

Mike gestured north. “There’s an auction house up the road.”

“What?! Really?”

“Oh yeah.” Mike said, nonplussed. “There’s a few in London alone." He rubbed his brow, "but the last thing I need right now is a slave.”

“So what will happen to him if you don’t take him?”

“I don’t know…do you think I should go?”

John shrugged. “Who knows what they’ll do to him, Mike. I wouldn’t put it past these people to euthanize an unwanted slave.”

Mike blinked, having clearly not considered this option.

John continued. "You could at least get him out of there and, I don't know, find a flat for him or something."

“I’ll get him. You can come with if you want, if you’re curious.” Mike headed for the road and John took a breath and went with him. This was apparently a part of life now and he figured he’d best get used to it and force himself to be part of it, even if he didn’t want to.

They took a cab to the auction place. “I don’t even _want_ him.” Mike muttered again. “You can imagine my surprise when I finally figured out what the payment was to be. The Prime Minister’s people said ‘man’ and I thought they were trying to say ‘money.’ _That’s_ why I agreed—language was a bit of a problem. I had no idea I was setting myself up for a human being.” Mike laughed humorlessly, opening up his briefcase and shuffling papers. John flexed his hand, feeling nervous for some reason as he watched the scenery go by.

The auction house was camouflaged in a nondescript row of white brick office buildings with dark square windows. John didn’t know what he was expecting. Something flashier maybe. Something bigger, like a department store. This place seemed as appropriate a setting as any for a slave auction though—if there ever could be such a place. They got out of the cab and Mike paid. John offered a few bills but was waved away.

“Do you just pick anyone?” John said, suddenly not wanting to go in.

“No, there’s a specific man they chose for me. He’s from London, so language shouldn’t be a problem.”

They walked into an open, airy lobby. The floor was tiled in big cream squares. A small waiting area with sleek metal molded chairs and a glass table was off to one side. Two soldiers dressed in a standard issue black uniform were standing in the far corner, conversing quietly. A red armband was wrapped around each of their biceps bearing an image of a red dragon wreathed in fire. John’s eyes fell to the AK-47s they had dangling from their shoulders. These sorts of sights were horribly commonplace. So much for leaving the war behind. It had seeped into London, filling the cracks with more violence and destruction. John flexed his hand again. Mike walked up to a big dark wood desk. A young man with short blondish-brown hair was manning it and he looked up as John and Mike approached.

“Good afternoon, sirs. How can I help you?”

Mike fumbled with the papers in his case and John blinked at the thin metal band around the young man’s neck. It was clasped, locked in place. John licked his lips and his leg throbbed. The man took the papers and read them over. “Have a seat please.” He said. “Someone will be with you soon.”

They went over to the molded chairs and sat. John glanced around the lobby, feeling like he was being watched by unfriendly eyes. This place had a foul feel to it, like the walls were closing in on you. A kind of oily electric desperation permeated the air. Mike summed it up nicely:

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“Definitely. Bloody hell, Mike. What kind of world do we live in now?”

He didn’t get to answer, as a tall soldier, also armed with a big gun, appeared from a hallway and a came over to them. “Stamford?” He said.

“That’s me.” They got up.

“With me.”

They followed him back down the hallway. In the distance, John heard the unmistakable drone of an auctioneer rattling off numbers and bids with a rat-a-tat efficiency. The sounds were emanating from an open doorway they were coming up to. He stuck his head in and his eyes widened. It was an auction, completed with chairs, bidders, and the droning man. The only horrible difference was that the item up for sale was a man. A nude, chained man standing listlessly at the edge of the stage as people in the audience lifted numbers. Even from this distance, the doctor in John could tell the guy had been drugged. His expression was vacant, his body sagging and limp. John ducked back into the hall to follow Mike. This had to be a nightmare. Where the hell was the government? How could this have been allowed to happen? Surely The Republic couldn’t be _that_ powerful?

The soldier brought them to a small neat office. The décor screamed late 1980s. He pulled open a drawer in a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. He threw it down on the desk and opened it, pulling out a set of stapled pages. He glanced over the top sheet and laughed.

"Lucky you, you're getting the weirdo." He snickered and turned the folder so it faced Mike. John frowned, wondering what the soldier meant by 'the weirdo.'

“If you could read this bill of sale and sign at the bottom.” The soldier tossed a pen down. “It just says that you picked him up and he's already bought and paid for by a third party. I’ll get him for you.”

"Wait," John said, "what do you mean 'weirdo?'"

"He's a nutter." The soldier said.

"Is he mentally sound?" John pressed. Mike took the pages to read.

Annoyingly, the soldier just shrugged. "I don't know. He sees things that no one else does. He knows things about people and he has a shite attitude."

John and Mike exchanged a look.

“Wonderful…" Mike sat in one of the vinyl chairs in front of the desk and started skimming the papers as the soldier left. “This is insane.” Mike muttered. “I’m really about to get a slave.” He sighed. “Aside from everything else, I don’t…I don’t have the room at my flat right now, you know? Even if it was just temporary.” Mike tossed the pages down and rubbed a hand over his forehead.

The door opened a few moments later and the soldier came back in leading a six foot tall nude man on a chain. His hair was dark and long-ish, wild and matted. His head was hanging, so John couldn’t see much, but a collar was bolted around his throat—a piece of metal that looked jagged and rough. A rainbow of yellow-purple bruises mottled his pale body, congregating thickest on his back, and there were scrapes and lashes from shoulder to knee. He reeked. John wondered when the hell the poor bastard had been allowed a bath. He had to restrain himself from backing away from the offensive smell. It’s not like the slave could help it, and God knew if John was in his place, he’d be in a similar state. His doctor brain switched back on, lingering on a particularly dark bruise on his ribs‒that could be broken. The others looked mostly superficial and blessedly healing, and he fortunately didn't have any deep lacerations or cuts. John didn't think he'd ever seen someone as banged up as this guy was who was up and walking and not restricted to a hospital bed.

The soldier dropped the chain and pointed at the ground. The slave slowly sank into a kneeling position beside John, bracing himself on the desk. The soldier watched him, and when the slave settled on his knees and went still, the soldier said "submit."

The kneeling man leaned half an inch forward, then seemed to think better of it and paused.

"I said _submit_." The soldier leaned over and smacked him hard on the head and John startled at the sight and the sound. He was accustomed to violence, yes, but in war and with a gun. Not callous abusive sadism. The slave winced and hunched, leaning all the way forward and resting on his elbows on the thin carpeted ground, his head down and his knobby bruise-stained back and bum exposed.

"No need to be so rough with him." John barked in his Angry Captain voice.

"A bastard, this one." The soldier nudged the prostrate figure with his boot. "Hasn't learned his place yet."

"I beg to differ." John murmured. He looked down again at the bruised slave and without thinking, reached out to rest a hand on his back. He intended the gesture to be comforting, but the slave jerked away, hunching further. John chided his own stupidity and let him be.

“Did you sign?” The soldier asked Mike.

He was still lingering with the pages, ruffling them without reading. “I just don’t know. If I refuse, what happens to him?”

“He goes back to the general pool to be auctioned.” He shrugged, propping his booted foot up on the desk chair to re-tie the laces. “If I was you, what I would do is sign that, then sell him yourself. Make some money off him.” He lowered his foot, then propped the other one up and did the same thing.

“Who would buy him?” Mike asked.

“Anyone who’s looking. Auction houses like these aren’t the only places to buy a slave. With this one you’d probably even have luck with a whore house. People pay good money for attractive ones.” He glanced down at the kneeling slave. “Though this one would be even better improved if you sliced his vocal cords and chopped his balls off. He’s vicious and has a hell of an attitude. We could take care of it here if you're interested.”

John was completely stunned into silence for a few seconds before he gathered himself. “Wait—what? You’re suggesting castration and a cordectomy?” On the floor, the slave shifted, a minute scrape of skin on carpet.

“Sure. Happens a lot. You’d want to keep his tongue in him though. Increases his value—just friendly advice.”

John felt sick.

“I just don’t know…” Mike said again.

“I’ll take him.” John blurted.

“Wh—really?” Mike said.

 _What the hell are you doing, Watson? They said he was a nutter with attitude problems, do you really want‒_ “Sure.” John ignored the little voice and soldiered on. “Sure. I’ll sign and take him home.” Mike would never allow anything so horrible to happen to the slave if he took him home himself, but if he didn’t take him and the slave was auctioned off to some nut, that _could_ happen and John refused to allow it. He grabbed the pen and signed. “There.” He threw it down.

“Thanks, John.” Mike said, relieved. “That’s a weight off, really.”

“Yeah sure, no problem.” John clapped him heartily, hysterically, on the back.

“Your choice.” The soldier said with a shrug. He stood. “He’ll need to be disinfected before you go. I’ll go bring him to be showered and then you’re all set.”

 _That’s it?_ John watched as Mike stood. The soldier tightened the chain and started walking towards the door. The slave couldn’t get up fast enough and the chain tightened, jerking harshly on his throat and nearly throwing him to the floor.

“Hey!” John snapped. “Careful.” He crouched and gripped the slave’s arm to steady him. He got a glimpse of his smudgy face and paused, startled at the man’s striking features. There was an ethereal quality about him. John’s grandmother would have said the man had faerie blood in him, what with his milk pale skin and sky-high cheekbones, his slightly slanted eyes and long lashes. If John believed in that sort of thing, he’d have agreed with her whole-heartedly.

“Are you okay?” John asked. The slave nodded and got to his feet. "What's your name?" John asked.

"Sherlock." His voice was a whisper, so low that John almost misheard the name. His heart lurched in his chest. He sounded completely done in.

“What kind of disinfecting?” John asked the soldier.

“A shower and a delousing. Standard—won’t take long.”

“Can I come with?” John hated the idea of anyone being alone with these crazy soldiers. For all he knew, Sherlock would come back to them with his cords or balls ‘accidentally’ cut and the mistake cited with a paperwork mix up.

“Your choice.” The soldier said, leading the silent slave away. John stumped hastily down the hall after the pair. He wondered what Sherlock's life had been before this all happened. If he had kids or a wife. John vowed that he would help him live as normal a life as he could, no matter what it took. Sherlock wouldn’t be treated as a slave anymore after today.

They went into what looked like a locker room at a gymnasium, minus the lockers. It was insanely bright and freezing in this room and John was surprised he couldn't see his breath smoking out of his mouth. It had a nose wrinkling faux-citrus disinfectant smell to it and he made a face, noticing Sherlock watching him out of the corner of his teal eye. He may be bruised and beaten, but his eyes were intelligent, peering him up and down. Calculating. Dull silver showerheads hung out of the ceilings at intervals on one side of the wall and on the other wall, a long line of generic black toilets. No privacy here. The soldier pointed at one showerhead and Sherlock stepped under it, clenching his fists at his sides. He looked up, shivering on the cool tile, stealing more glances at his future owner.

 _Doctor, army, Iraq. No, Afghanistan._ His brain whirred as he absorbed what he could about the army doctor's appearance. _Military. Fucking hell, why do these military types insist on ruining me?_ This man, this doctor, had a sore leg and shoulder and he'd only returned to London recently. Sherlock watched, pained as his scientist's brain struggled to read information that used to come to him as naturally as breathing. Disuse had slowed it down, and he no longer felt like a rocket on a launch pad, tearing itself to pieces. These past years, being completely devoid of cases‒of any kind of useful stimulation‒had been maddening. Anger, sadness, confusion, depression. It had felt like his brain was dying, writhing in death throes from the stultifying boredom of being locked up and tied up every second of every day with a horrid fucking collar around his neck. His idiot owner, Moran, hadn't been sympathetic to Sherlock's mental plight. He did it on purpose, Sherlock knew. Kept him down. Kept him stupid. Gave him a constant litany of _fetch this, fetch that, you have no friends, Sherlock. No one likes you , no one cares about you. Weirdo._ After a while it was just easier and less painful to submit. Moran had no idea what he was dealing with. Something, Sherlock was absolutely sure, Moran's employer knew. He wouldn't put it past Moriarty to let Moran blunder about with him, letting him, _wanting_ him to get hurt and stupid.

Something about this doctor, John, made a tiny burst of hope blossom in his belly. Maybe he would be different. Different was good. John stood still and quiet, his eyes kind and his demeanor unthreatening. Call it a gut reaction or a preternatural energy or just a good vibe, but Sherlock felt for the first time in a very long while that he might actually come out of The Fall okay.

The soldier pushed a button in the wall and the shower turned on. By the way Sherlock tensed and grimaced John could tell the water was as cold as the air in the room. It shut off after a moment and the soldier flung some white disinfecting powder at him. It covered his skin and dusted his dark hair, and then the water was turned on full force again. John winced at the second blast of ice water. Sherlock was tugged forward, shivering and wet. He was given a pair of linen shorts and a shirt which he quietly slipped on. The soldier headed back for the hall.

“Don’t you dry him?”

“No. He’ll air dry plenty fine. Why waste towels?”

Sherlock looked mutinous and scared and embarrassed beyond belief as he followed the soldier, barely able to walk because he was shivering so hard. John’s natural empathy went into overdrive. He yanked his coat off and threw it around the man’s shoulders. He seemed startled, but he pulled it more tightly around himself. John wished for the first time in a long time that he had a spare outfit on him. Or at least just a towel.

“Would you like us to sedate him?” The soldier asked.

“No.” John hissed. They went back to the office where Mike was waiting, looking at his watch. A few more papers were signed, a thick manila folder was handed to John, and they walked out of the office, Sherlock’s chain leash now in John’s hand.

“Thanks, John. Really.” Mike said. He looked at his watch again. “Shit, I gotta run.” He looked mildly pained at the awkwardness of his sudden exit. John waved him off. “Go, Mike.”

“I’ll call you later!” Mike said. He hurried up to the main road to get a cab.

John sighed quietly, watching Mike scuttle off. _What the hell did I just do?_

He turned to the slave. “I’m John.” He said gently. “John Watson. What’s your last name, mate?”

The slave shifted, shivering harder in the chill outside air, his hair and bare arms and legs still dripping with water. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, sir.”

Sherlock’s voice was a surprisingly rich pleasant baritone, and he stared at the ground as he spoke.

John reached and tilted Sherlock’s chin up, their eyes meeting for the first time. “Call me John.”

* * *

**_tbc..._ **


	3. I Got a Fever

It didn’t take a doctor to see that Sherlock was malnourished. His ribs poked up against his bruised skin and his face was gaunt. His spine stuck out of his lashed back as he hunched forward, instinctively protecting his torso. His eyes were clouded and despite the powder and cold shower, there were honest to God fleas crawling around his neck under John's coat. John hid his grimace. He felt like an arse for standing here, fed and clean and dressed for the weather. How could those bastards be so heartless?

“C’mon.” John said gently. “Let’s get back to my flat and then we’ll work on getting you food and clothes.”

Sherlock nodded and quietly followed John, the chain slack between them.

* * *

 

Forty minutes later, they were standing outside the bathroom door in John’s little flat. “Here you go.” He fiddled with the chain fastened to the metal collar and unclipped it, fully intending on chucking it in the skip behind his building. He opened the door and stepped aside for Sherlock to enter. The younger man didn’t move and John wondered just what sorts of freedoms (or lack thereof) he’d had as a slave. “You can shower, use the toilet.” John prompted. He fully planned on allowing his slave to have all the freedoms he wanted and deserved, but one thing John wouldn’t stand for was fleas roaming the flat. Sherlock crept into the room with a quiet 'thank you.'

"I'll bring you some clothes." John said. As he walked away, he was vaguely aware of Sherlock stripping off his clothes with the door still open. No matter. He couldn't help but notice though how stiffly the man was moving. He favored his right arm and shoulder and he had some pretty nasty bruising on his right ribs. Like he’d been kicked. Fuming, John went off to find clothes. He opened the door to the tiny extra room the flat had. It was clear this had been a glorified walk-in closet at one point that some enterprising tenant had gleefully tried to transform into another room. It hadn't really worked. The clothes bar still stretched from one ivory colored wall to the other. A couple skeletal wire hangers were collecting dust. There was a dark red sofa occupying the floor space that looked like one of those do-it-yourself jobs from Ikea. No doubt it had been built in here and left behind, as there was no way it would fit through the door. John turned to his stack of boxes and opened one. Everything he had was too short in the leg or sleeve. Not surprising, Sherlock had a good five inches in height on him. He found a white Tshirt that was a little too big, and a grey swishy jacket that he vaguely remembered receiving ages ago as a gift from…some relative he rarely saw. The color didn't really work on him and he was glad he could give it to Sherlock. He scrounged a spare pair of jeans and pants and returned to the bathroom, leaving the jeans and pants and shirt on the closed toilet lid.

Sherlock emerged a half hour later in a cloud of shampoo and soap scented steam. He wandered into the kitchen, where John was sitting with a mug of tea and a plate of freshly cooked risotto. Sherlock paused in the doorway, taking in the new space and tugging distractedly at the hem of his too-big Tshirt. _Small, cheap. Clean though. Yes, John likes cleanliness‒that's the army for you. Mobile on counter, keys…what's that?_ Sherlock picked a crumpled piece of paper off the counter and unfolded it, staring at the PFFS flyer.

"Oh that. I found it at the airport." John scooped a forkful to his mouth, chasing it with a sip of tea. His cane leaned up against the other chair. Suddenly John spluttered, "your collar!" He saw the heavy metal shackle still around Sherlock's throat. "Why didn't you say something? Let me get it off, they gave me a key…" He reached for the manila folder that that soldier had given him.

"Do you agree with this?" Sherlock asked, ignoring what John had said and focusing on the words 'crush The Republic.'

"I don't like that people are enslaved." John said, coming up to him with a little silver key. "I'm all for unlimited clean energy sources, but there has to be a way to get it without slavery." He unlocked the collar and dumped it in the bin.

Sherlock scrunched the paper again and threw it on top.

"Does it hurt?" John eyed the red scratched skin.

"No."

"Good. I'll put some cream on there. Actually, I want to get a look at your other injuries too if you don't mind."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"You can have tea." John said. Sherlock slid his gaze to the kettle but didn't move. "Help yourself. To anything…what's mine is yours." Silence. "Do you like tea?" John asked.

He nodded.

John got up and began fixing him a cup. He glanced over the other man as he made the tea, unnerved that he wasn't talking. He was just standing there, listless and glancing around the room. Sherlock was practically emaciated. His skin was even more sallow and gaunt in the milky light coming in the window over the sink. The Tshirt hung on him like a gauzy shroud and the jeans were low on his hips, way too loose and dragging on the floor.

“You’ll need a haircut.” John murmured as Sherlock took the mug and sipped. “There’s still mats in there and I imagine you'll want to go get it cut. They’ll probably wash your head again which wouldn’t be a bad thing at this point. If you’re not too tired, we could do that after you eat.” John nodded to the pot on the stove that contained the rest of the rice and the plate and spoon he'd left out for Sherlock's use.

John was amazed to hear a quiet, “not hungry.” Sherlock gently sipped out of the chipped black mug.

“What?! How are you not hungry? You’re skin and bone‒you should probably be in hospital. I'm frankly amazed you're up and functioning.”

Sherlock snapped his head up, looking at John with wide eyes. "No hospital."

John hesitated.

"I don't like hospitals!"

"Okay‒okay." John raised his hands in defeat and Sherlock relaxed.

“I didn't eat much before The Fall.” Sherlock blew across the surface of the tea. "And then I wasn't allowed…" Sherlock trailed off and looked down at his mug.

"Did your other o-owners keep you from eating?" John asked. He was still completely uncomfortable with the idea of people owning other people. Of _himself_ owning another person. Sherlock didn't answer. John thought this could maybe be a touchy subject‒he understood that. He didn't want to talk about the war, after all‒so he changed the topic.

"Do you need anything?" John asked. The dark head shook. "You can lay down if you're tired. You can take my bed or the floor or the sofa‒whatever you want." At this, Sherlock took his tea into the little side room with the sofa, squeezing in and disappearing into the depths.

John exhaled and scrubbed fingers through his hair. It was impossible to get a read on the other man. He was clearly exhausted now, but as to his personality‒who he was, what he did, John had no idea and Sherlock had given no hints. He didn't seem to be a nutter like the soldier said, as for his attitude, he had no idea. Well, that was fine. There would be time.

* * *

 

John was surprised to find he didn't see much of Sherlock over the next few days. It wasn’t a huge flat by any stretch of the imagination yet John really only saw Sherlock here and there when he came out to use the toilet or grab some tea. He never left the flat. All the "you can come out"'s and "you don't have to be in there if you don't want to"'s followed eventually by "Are you feeling alright?" didn't make the other man budge. John got tired of hearing himself plead with a grown man to eat, and got in the habit of simply leaving food out on the table before going to bed at night. In the morning it would always be gone, the used dishes left in the sink, and the side door firmly closed. That was something, John supposed. Sherlock was eating, even if it was only one meal in the middle of the night.

John was surprised then to come into the kitchen one afternoon, nearly two weeks after bringing Sherlock home, to find no evidence of him having eaten the night before. Usually there were dishes or crumbs or the bread was left out or _something_ that indicated his new flatmate had at least had toast. A glance at the clock revealed it to be nearly one in the afternoon. Sherlock, though a night owl, never slept in that late. John knocked on the little room's closed door.

"Sherlock?" He called. Silence. "You okay?"

No answer.John pushed open the door. The first thing he noticed was how hot and stuffy it was in there. Sherlock was laying on his back on the red sofa, wearing the jeans but bare-chested. His arm was up, covering his eyes.

"Are you feeling okay?" John asked, purposely not entering the space. It was kind of an unwritten rule that he had imposed on himself. Sherlock claimed this space as his own and after the years of non-privacy the man must have had, John wouldn't intrude on it until he was invited in even though this was his flat. He supposed he'd appreciate someone doing the same for him.

"Fine." Sherlock murmured. His voice was low and hoarse.

"Did you eat?"

"No."

"Want some tea?" John asked. Sherlock shifted on the sofa and John saw a shine of sweat on his pale neck. Something was definitely wrong. John had been a doctor for fifteen years. He knew a sick person when he saw one. He didn't like seeing anyone sick, but Sherlock's body was already weakened by the poor nutrition and the mistreatment at the auction house. He could be more susceptible to staying sick longer or contracting something worse.

"You have a fever, don't you." John said.

Sherlock rolled to his side, his eyes closed. "Maybe."

"Why don’t you come on out, if you can? It's really warm in here."

"Don't want to move." Sherlock's voice was still that low almost-whisper.

"Okay. Can I take your temperature?"

A pause. "Okay."

"Be right back." John walked into the kitchen and flipped the kettle on, then went to his bag, pulling out the tympanic thermometer. He put a new tip on and grabbed a bottle of paracetemol just in case, then poured a mug of tea, adding two sugars like he'd seen Sherlock do when he made it himself. John went back to the little room, armed and ready. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock nodded and John slid around his boxes and the arm of the sofa, kneeling down on the floor beside Sherlock's head and setting the tea down. Sherlock's face was covered again.

"Alright mate," John's voice was low and soothing. He'd been complimented on his bedside manner lots of times‒a fact he was rather proud of. "I brought you tea and I'm just going to slide this into your ear and take your temp, okay?"

A nod.

John pushed aside the soft wavy hair and slid the nib inside. He whistled. "38.9. With fluids and rest you should be fine. Here," John opened the bottle and shook two pills into his hand, "these'll bring it down."

"Don't want it." He muttered.

"I know you don't want to move, but just take these pills and drink something, yeah?"

Sherlock lowered his arms and sat up. The edges of his hair were damp and his eyes were bright and glassy. He took the pills from John without comment.

"Any other symptoms?" John asked.

He shook his head. "Just tired. Hot." He popped both pills and gulped half the mug.

"That's fine." John got up. "I'll buy some stuff to make you feel better and check on you later, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and lay down again and John left, leaving the door open.

He spent the rest of the day running errands and doing shopping and the like. He ran to Asda and threw a couple ice packs and some juice and sports drinks in his trolley for Sherlock for later, then really wished the other man had gotten his appetite back. John wanted to get him food, but still had no idea what he would prefer to eat. He didn't seem picky so John just got more of the same. He then ran into a clothing store and grabbed some more comfortable clothes for him‒sweatpant bottoms, a few Tshirts, pants (guessing on all the sizes) and socks just for starters. Comfortable clothing to be ill and sleepy in. He came back around five to find Sherlock still fast asleep, and while he was doing the washing up from dinner two hours later he heard a faint, "John?"

He wiped his hands and went into the little room. Sherlock was sitting up. The waistband of his jeans was dark with sweat and when he wiped his forehead his hand came away wet. It was worse. He didn't even need to say anything. John grabbed the thermometer off the boxes and knelt on the sofa, gently tipping Sherlock's head to the side and sliding it in his ear. "39.7." He said grimly. Sherlock looked up at him, a spike of helplessness in his bright eyes.

"What now?" He said grimly. "Hospital?"

"No." John said emphatically. "It's not nearly that bad. Don't worry yet. I'll give you three pills, we'll change your clothes‒I got you a few things and I washed them. Do you think you could eat? Soup or toast?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Alright. I bought some juice and ice packs. They should be cold enough by now to help bring that fever down." John smiled and Sherlock nodded, looking a little more relieved. "When did this start?"

"Felt fine last night," Sherlock mumbled. "Woke up this morning around five feeling hot. I went to get some water and lay back down."

"Do you get ill often?"

"No. Well, I used to never. Then The Fall and…my other owner, he didn't really care." Sherlock rubbed his face. "There's several injections slaves are supposed to get every year or so‒Republic mandated to reduce the risk of spreading disease. They gave me all the jabs at the same visit and those made me…very ill. I probably should have been in hospital, hateful places, but _my owner_ didn’t let me go."

After everything else John had heard about this new world, the fact that Sherlock was denied health care shouldn't have been surprising. But it stunned him all over again. Maybe because he was a doctor it hit so close to home. He took a deep breath, so angry at Sherlock's past owners that he couldn't speak for a moment.

"I promise," he said, "that if you need to go to hospital, you will. You will be given the care you deserve and require. If you want to go right now, just say the word. However, in my opinion, I don't think we need to go right now. Your temperature isn't that high and you have no other symptoms. There's an excellent chance we can just bring it down here."

Sherlock nodded. "I don’t want to go."

"Okay. Sit tight, then." John patted his shoulder. "You won't die. I'll be right back." He took the empty mug and went into the kitchen. Sherlock watched him through the crack in the door, the light in the kitchen exceptionally bright to his fevered, hot brain. Sherlock dropped his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes, delving into his palace…

_Everything was still in place yet parts were forgotten. Changed. The corridors were dusty and melted away from a longevity of disuse. The lack of repeated visits made his palace unfamiliar, like a favorite childhood haunt that was a foreign land to his adult self. Ghosts drifted among the dust in shadows of memory. Entire walls and floors who's every crack and crevice he had once known so well had faded into grey empty patches. It was a place abandoned, but not ruined. There was hope here, among the ruin._

Sherlock opened his eyes, coming back to himself and the present time on the red sofa. His bladder was making itself known. He rolled to his feet, balancing two fingers on the wall in his fever haze and tiptoed to the door, pushing it open. John was returning from the kitchen, some soft-looking clothes tucked under his arm and a glass of juice in his hand.

"Toilet?" John asked.

A nod.

"C'mon." John put the juice on the box beside the thermometer and gripped Sherlock's bicep to steady him. He was pleased when the man allowed him to guide him to the loo. "You can just change in there too. There's a little more space."

John deposited him in front of the toilet and put the clothes on the tank. "Holler if you need me."

Sherlock nodded and John left, shutting the door behind. He waited outside, hearing the flush and the washing of hands. All seemed well until he heard a yelp and a _thud_. He pushed open the door. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, his Tshirt half on. He blinked a few times and looked sheepishly up at the doctor. "Lost my balance." He said.

"Let me help." John stepped into the room and reached for the clothes.

"John, I'm capable of‒"

"No you’re not. You just almost knocked yourself out putting a shirt on. Ten seconds, and you'll be in dry clothes and you can go back to sleep, okay?"

He didn't have the energy to argue with that logic. His mind clung to the word 'sleep' and he nodded. "Just lean on the wall here…" John tugged the shirt the rest of the way over his torso. In one swift motion, he tugged off the damp jeans and pants, sliding fresh pairs of each up his legs and tightening the drawstring.

"There. Ready?" John gripped his arm again and Sherlock leaned off the wall, allowing himself to be lead back to the sofa, where he gratefully fell on the cushions, already looking more comfortable. The clothes fit well and John was pleased at his guesstimate skills. "Three pills." John handed them over. "Juice. Can you drink the whole thing?"

Sherlock downed the pills and chugged the liquid.

"Good." John took the empty glass and filled it with water, bringing it back and setting it on the floor. He grabbed the ice packs. "Lift your arms for the ice packs, please."

Sherlock did, but as soon as the cool compress touched the fabric of his Tshirt he winced and clamped his arm down. "No!" He whined.

"Sherlock, it'll help."

"It's cold. Too cold."

"You just need to get used to it. They're half thawed anyway. Try again? Your temperature is getting higher."

Sherlock exhaled loudly and lifted his arm and John put the ice pack on his ribs‒Sherlock hissed. "No‒too cold. Get away!" He shoved it to the floor and curled in on himself.

"Okay." John scooped it up. "Fine. Let's see what the medicine does and then if need be, we'll try again."

"Mmm…" Sherlock snuggled down and was still. John left him alone and threw the packs back in the freezer. He hoped the extra meds would do the job.

* * *

 

_Torment. It was violently windy in his palace and Sherlock tucked the edges of his coat tighter around his body. He didn't usually have weather in this place, but all the walls were missing, crushed under Moriarty's hands. Sherlock watched, helpless and weak, his body hot with fever. He tried to take stock of everything‒all his files and his experiment results, his hypothesis wall (currently empty) and the green glass jars where he stored all his botanical knowledge. His aunt's parlor layout, complete with a gigantic fireplace, contained 240 types of tobacco ash and he knew if he walked through the fireplace he would be in the poisons lab, but it just wasn't there. It was supposed to be there, but there was more windy grey void on the other side of that fireplace and not a clean cool lab of alphabetized toxins._

_He was silently thrilled that so much was all still here, but there was still a lot missing. The poisons lab, for one, and also his reading room. His music room. His map sphere needed a serious overhaul…he could barely picture the city…_

Sherlock tossed restlessly on the sofa, lost in the dreamworld of his mind palace, a storm of fever and memory terrorizing his sanctuary.

* * *

 

John was awoken at 2:57 am by the sound of something crashing in the kitchen. He leaped out of bed, grabbing his gun automatically, and ran into the other room. Sherlock was on the floor and a chair was toppled near him.

"You okay?" John put the gun aside and crouched beside his flatmate.

"Yeah." Sherlock was breathing hard and blinking. His clothes were soaked again and he seemed to be looking around the room for something.

"What‒what are you looking for?"

"Redbeard..."

"Redbeard?" John said slowly. "What is that?"

Sherlock glanced around, looking lost, then rubbed his face. "I don't feel well, John."

"No." John stood up. "You clearly don't. Wait here." He hurried to get the thermometer. Sherlock was hallucinating, that could only mean his internal temperature was rising. A rising temperature meant that they might have to go to hospital whether Sherlock wanted it or not. John would prefer it if they could avoid it. The last thing he wanted to do was stress the man out more but it was rapidly becoming inevitable. Sherlock was still huddled on the floor, his fingers pressed against his eyes. John slipped the thermometer in his ear. 40.4. "C'mon." John said grimly, reaching down to tug him up. "I'm going to call an ambulance and we're going to hospital."

"What?" Sherlock snapped his head up and shook it furiously. _The bright prick of pain and a sinking fog of drugs. Christ only knew what Moran and Moriarty had done while he was drugged._

"No. No, no. No hospital."

"Why? Sherlock," John kept his voice calm, "your temperature is very high. Too high. We need to get it down safely. The doctors there can do that."

"No! You do it."

"Their equipment will be‒ "

"John," Sherlock leaned forward and clung to his legs, curling up. "Don't make me go there, please don't! I'll be good!" Sherlock sounded alarmingly near tears and John couldn't help but feel a little disturbed at his begging and promises of being good. What on earth had happened to him?

"Okay." John automatically smoothed his hand through Sherlock's hair to soothe him, curled up against his legs as he was. "Okay, hush…" John squatted, patting the man's shoulder awkwardly. "We'll try to get it down at the flat, but you need to do everything I say, got it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Wait here. I'm going to put you in the shower." John extracted himself and went into the bathroom. He flipped on the shower, making the water lukewarm. He threw a couple towels on the floor of the tub‒something for Sherlock to sit on. John didn't think he'd be able to stand for that long. His fever really was dangerously high, and despite Sherlock's begging to not go to hospital, if it didn't get better fast, John would make him go come hell or high water. He was risking brain damage at this rate.

"Sherlock." He went back to the kitchen and patted his shoulder. "Sherlock, let's go."

"Where?"

"The shower, remember?"

Sherlock groaned and John pulled him up. He guided him to the loo like before. "Can you get your clothes off?"

"Tired." Sherlock muttered.

"Okay…" John leaned him on the wall and tugged his shirt off, then his bottoms and pants down. Sherlock yipped and hunched in on himself, his arms coming up defensively to ward off the chilly clammy bathroom cold. John got a glimpse of fading bruises and a scarred back and bottom and legs before he guided him to the tub. His jaw clenched at the brutal history written out on Sherlock's skin but he didn't have time to dwell on past abuses. Sherlock was ill and John needed to tend him. "Step over here…" Sherlock got into the tub and as soon as he felt the warm water, he hissed. "Ah‒no! Cold!"

"Sh…you're just hot. Sit down and relax. I'll heat it up a little."

He helped Sherlock sit on the towels and he turned the water a little hotter. He aimed the spray at Sherlock's bruised, knobby back, glad when the younger man stopped shivering and seemed to relax a little more. John thought he saw steam rising from his skin. _Bloody hell_.

"Am I going to be okay?" Sherlock asked over the rush of water.

"Yes. Don't worry. You're going to be fine, mate." John alternated the spray on Sherlock's back and chest for a few moments. "Hold on to this," he said, "I want to grab the thermometer." He handed him the showerhead and left, returning a moment later and pushing the machine into his ear again. This better be working….

"39.8. Good." It was going down, finally.

"Can I get out?"

"Couple minutes yet…" John continued alternating back and chest, and even hosed down his head, ignoring his wince. "Okay." He flipped off the water, then helped him dry off and get back into his clothes and back onto the sofa, where he snuggled down, already mostly asleep. John threw the thin blanket over him, then grabbed an extra one off his bed and put it down on the arm of the sofa in case he got cold.

John went back to his bed and sat heavily on the edge, realizing for the first time that _he_ had broken a sweat too from the stress of it all. He let out a sigh and flopped down, finding that he was tired but not particularly sleepy. True, the temperature had gone down, but it had been high. Really high. John doubted it would rise again, but you never knew. He couldn't, in good conscience, leave Sherlock alone all night long. There were just too many what-ifs. He found he didn't really mind staying up for a while longer anyway. He wasn't sleepy, and he wouldn't sleep well knowing Sherlock was in such a tenuous state. The man was under his care now, so John would ensure he got the best. He stood and went to the kitchen, grabbing a flannel and a bowl of water. He dropped some ice into the bowl and took the compresses as well, just in case. He went to the little room and slipped inside. Sherlock was awake, but barely. His eyes were slits John could tell even from the doorway that he had broken a sweat again.

"Sherlock." John put the bowl on the floor and took the thermometer. He perched on the edge of the sofa by the man's hip. Sherlock moaned a little. "Hey, I'm going to take your temp again, just to be sure."

Sherlock nodded and John leaned in, tilting his head to the side again. Still 39.8.

"Fucking fever." John muttered. He got a dirty mouth when he was tired. He dipped the flannel in the cold water and wrung it out, then wiped it over Sherlock's forehead and neck. To John's surprise, he didn't seem to mind the cool water. If anything he leaned into it and sighed, his restless body quieting a bit.

"Do you want the ice packs?" John asked.

"Yeah…"

For the next hour John laved his neck and brow and ensured the ice packs were placed under his arms and on the back of his neck. When they got warm he tossed them on the floor. Sherlock seemed to be doing better. Finally. He wasn't restless or sweating anymore and his color had gotten a little better. Hoping for the best, John took his temperature again. 37.8.

Sighing in relief that they would not have to make an emergency trip to the hospital, John brought the bowl and packs to the kitchen before gratefully falling into bed just as the sun was washing the sky with grey.

* * *

 

He woke up around 10, the latest he'd slept in ages. He got up, rubbing his eyes, and poked his head into the closet room. Empty. He made his way to the kitchen and was pleased and relieved to see Sherlock sitting at the table in a dressing gown and John's slippers, sipping out of a steaming mug. He gave him a faint grin and nodded at a second steaming mug sitting on the table.

John sank into the opposite chair and sipped the strong, heady black coffee. "Feeling better I take it?" John asked.

"Yes. 37.4."

John must have looked as relieved as he felt the previous night, because Sherlock grinned. "Worried, doctor?"

"Little bit. You weren't making a whole lot of sense last night."

"Really?"

"What do you remember?"

"I…was awake. Was I in the kitchen?"

"Yes. Do you remember why you were in the kitchen?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You said you were following something, and when I asked what you said 'Redbeard.'"

Sherlock's eyes widened. Then he blinked, looking sad for a moment. "I don't remember anything of the sort."

"Do you remember the shower?" John asked.

"It was…bright. I remember your voice." He looked at John, seemingly surprised by his own lack of memory.

"The bathroom light was on. It gets pretty bright in there with all the white tile."

"I don't remember water or being in the loo at all..."

"Hm, you're also not a fan of hospitals."

"Who _is_?"

John sipped his coffee, needing the caffeine. He decided not to ask about Sherlock's begging not to be taken to the hospital. He didn't seem to remember it, and John didn't want to bring up anything painful.

Sherlock lipped the edge of his mug, trying to remember. He hated this massive gap in his brain, dotted here and there with spots of the previous night's drama. The bright light, warm water. Then John in his room and something cold and soft bringing sweet relief to his sweating, aching body.

"You were there." Sherlock blurted.

"Hum?" John had gotten a newspaper and was reading at the table. Sherlock wasn't even aware he'd risen.

"Last night." Sherlock was confused. His spotty memory was piecing together images and sensations of a cool cloth on his forehead and a soft voice murmuring nice things. "Why did you stay up?"

"You were sick." John said. "Your fever at one point was 40.4. You were hallucinating. I needed to make sure‒I _wanted_ to make sure the fever went down."

"Oh." Sherlock sipped his coffee. John had done all that? John had stayed up with him and wiped his sweat and taken him to the shower? Sherlock was surprised to feel rather touched. It had been so long since the people in charge of his welfare hadn’t hurt him. "Thank you." He said quietly. Sincerely.

"You're welcome."

* * *

 

The next couple days were happily uneventful. Sherlock still kept very much to himself, but he was much more relaxed around John and once even crept out of the little room to have a meal with him.

John came home from his appointment with Ella one day, feeling a little bit wrung out. Like he'd had his brain pried open and poked. To his happy surprise, Sherlock was perched on his desk chair, facing the room, his arms wrapped around his legs. He was watching the tiny television, the sound muted.

"Hey." John said, trying to sound warm and inviting. "Do you want some lunch? I had a taste for pasta…" Sherlock didn't say a word in response and when John glanced over he was watching him, the television forgotten, observing silently. That half of the bedsit was in shadow, as John hadn't drawn the shade before he left, and what little light there was slashed over Sherlock's face, highlighting one eye in silver blue fire. It was more than creepy and it occurred to John again that he had no idea who Sherlock was or what he did and that Sherlock could actually just up and try to murder him in the night.

Ignoring it, John put a pot of water on the stove to boil, intent on making linguine for their lunch, then he scrunched his nose at the coffee maker. Did he want any? "Sherlock, do you want coffee?"

"…Okay."

John made coffee. "Two sugars?"

"Yes." He sounded faintly surprised.

John added sugar and brought the mug to the desk, setting it down. Sherlock watched him do it, then watched him go back into the kitchen to get his own. He was making the soldier nervous, he could tell by the way John's neck had gone all tight and the little side glances he kept aiming Sherlock's way. Sherlock grinned inwardly. Being a slave, being tethered and owned by Sebastian Moran had not been at all conducive to case solving or brain work. No, it had been the opposite. Day and night he was chained in the man's flat, sometimes being let off to eat or be brought outside for exercise, often promised that if he 'was good today and behaved himself' he would be rewarded with the permission to perform simple mundane activities by himself:

The ability to roam on his own. To be allowed to bathe. Allowed to go on the Internet or make himself his choice of food. He learned quickly that Moran was a liar and a tease, and rarely allowed him any of these things no matter what he did. He preferred to promise and deny and laugh about it. Sherlock, as independent and intelligent and fastidious as he was, was brought to heel relatively quickly once he realized how Moran operated. Somewhere in his dusty mind palace, he'd realized that the psychological manipulation reeked of Moriarty. But the regular punches and kicks were crude like Moran.

Sherlock watched the doctor swallow down the rest of his mug in the kitchen, his eyes closed in enjoyment as he gradually tipped the cup further and further until it was drained and he poured himself another.

John was a refreshing blessing and Sherlock found himself feeling a glimmer of a sensation he had long since forgotten about: hope. For the first time since he got taken off the street, Sherlock was hoping that maybe his life wouldn't get wasted after all. Maybe everything would be okay. The doctor left him alone (except for caring for fevers) and didn't seem to care that Sherlock had adopted the sofa as his own. His own place to zone out in his mind palace and reorganize and get reacquainted. _That_ was what he needed at the moment, space and time to get healthy and get his brain up and running. To kick it into gear. Turn the key and start the engine. It was easier said than done though. Moran and his employer's cruelty had been crudely effective. Deep down, Sherlock was the same as he had been before The Fall, but his psyche was gilded with a patina of fear and wariness. John was proving himself to be the anti-Moran. Sherlock suspected that if the doctor planned on hurting him or taking advantage of him in some way, he would have done it by now. He had a perfect opportunity when Sherlock had been ill, but had he taken it? No. He provided comfort and care. For now, Sherlock was biding his time, watching the doctor, gleaning what he could about his life. He was practicing his rusty deduction skills and John was a safe way to practice.

"Sherlock." John came back in the room with a plate of prepared noodles in sauce. He set it beside the coffee. "I know I mentioned this before, but with the fever and everything… do you want to get your hair cut? If not, fine‒it's your choice. And also I'd really like to look you over, give you a physical. You're underweight, even moreso now because of the fever." Sherlock stiffened, bringing his feet to the floor. "Don't worry‒I actually am a doctor." He laughed a little. "We can work out a diet plan and get you up to speed in no time.”

Glancing around, Sherlock spied the coffee he'd forgotten about next to the steaming plate of food. He snatched it up. “I know you're a doctor. An army doctor.” _Sip._

“Oh. How?”

“I saw.” Sherlock offered. John stared at him, dumbfounded. A smug little smile appeared on Sherlock's face.

“Well, I want you to at least try to eat more." John said. "You’re not healthy.”

“Health." Sherlock scoffed. "Health is boring.”

John had heard a lot of opinions regarding health in his time, but ‘boring’ was a new one.

"Do you not like linguine?" Sherlock really needed to eat more whether he wanted to or not. One meal at night wasn't going to cut it long term. At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the plate, slurping some noodles into his mouth.

“Just a few bites if you can manage.” John encouraged. “You need to gain weight. We can go to Asda and you can pick some food you like.”

 _Oh yes_ , Sherlock thought, _John is definitely different._ He watched the doctor limp back to the kitchen to wash up and Sherlock eyed the rest of the pasta. It was true, he wasn't hungry. He was never a big eater at the best of times and his body had gotten used to going without for even longer stretches than normal. Another courtesy of Moran and his employer. Sherlock glanced around the small dingy space, looking for a laptop. Would John even have one? He didn't strike Sherlock as particularly tech-savvy, despite the smartphone, butthat didn't mean there wasn't a computer around. Sherlock thought fondly of his website. Would John let him continue? Would he let Sherlock go back to being a detective? Maybe. Maybe not. It would be easier to not even tell him, at least at first. If John was just willing to let him outside and let him wander on his own, Sherlock could solve simpler cases unimpeded. Not yet though. He still needed some time to get his head on right. John wouldn't even need to know if he left to do a case. And what owners didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Sherlock scraped the plate clean.

* * *

 

**_tbc…_ **

 


	4. Oiling the Engine

John took Sherlock up the street to the food shop in the hopes that he'd pick some favorites. Sherlock stuck to John's side as they moved up and down the aisles. He didn't say anything, but it was very odd to be out and about doing something as mundane and boring as shopping for food. He had no leash or collar, as John simply hadn't bought him either yet (and didn't much want to, thanks). It was the law that slaves be leashed and collared. John's money was tight though, obvious by the way he was barely getting anything and even when Sherlock did give a vague affirmation to something on the shelf, he got the brand on sale.

By the time they returned home, the submission cloaking the taller man was starting to slide away. It was good for Sherlock, but not good for John’s wallet. He worried that Sherlock was barely speaking and worried that he might not be able to afford housing another human after all. He'd already spent over a budgeted week's worth of his pension in the few days Sherlock had lived with him.

“You can speak freely.” John said as he set the bag on the kitchen table and flipped on the greenish florescent light in the ceiling. “I don’t know what kinds of rules exist for slaves or owners or any of that. If we're going to be living together, I'd like for us to try and get to a point where we can just…” He paused, searching for the word, " _function_ together like normal people." John started unpacking. Sherlock stood next to the grimy stove, watching his every move. “You already know I’m a doctor.” A beat. John pulled a carton of eggs out of the bag and held them for a moment. “Afghanistan.” He opened the fridge and put them away. “How did you know I was an army medic?"

“I saw it. I saw you were military the same way I saw that you were a doctor.”

John paused. What the soldier had said about Sherlock knowing things was becoming apparent. “Right. I’ve only had access to real news since I got back, or whatever counts as real news now. I plan on reading up on those rules and laws The Republic so graciously imposed on the world tonight, and any help you could offer would be much appreciated.” John put the can of beans he was holding down on the counter and turned to Sherlock. “Were they serious about cutting your vocal cords?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve they would perform a cordectomy.” Sherlock said simply, though a tremor of fear hung on his voice. “That particular man had threatened to remove or destroy various parts of my anatomy in the past.”

"Jesus." John rubbed his face.

"I…can't say I didn't deserve the threats." Sherlock sounded mildly sheepish and John looked up.

“What did you say to him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I asked him how the embezzling was going.”

John’s eyes widened. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know?”

“I saw it.” Sherlock sounded impatient. “I observe and I deduce. Sometimes the truth makes people angry.”

“There’s a doctor that would do such a thing?” John mused.

“People now seem to do whatever you ask, provided you give them enough money or beat them hard enough.” Sherlock told him. “And I’m fine.”

“What?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock said again. “I’m not in pain. I know you wanted to give me a physical, but it's truly not necessary."

John stared at him at a slight loss for words. _What, is he telepathic?_ “I’d really like to double-check, Sherlock.” John said. "I know it's been a couple weeks, but…"

“It’s fine.” Sherlock insisted. "I don't want…" _to deal with this now, dammit. I want to check my website. See if it even exists anymore…_

John glanced again at the spot under the shirt where he knew Sherlock’s big purple bruise was. No one with a bruise that spectacular was ‘fine.'

“Do you have a laptop, John?”

“Yes. I'd like to at least look at your ribs though. They're still purple. Will you let me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine." He obviously wasn't going to be satisfied until he felt like he'd done something. He pulled off his shirt and watched John inspect him. The area on his right side wasn't as purple as John had seen at the auction house, but the bruise was still plenty dark. John ran his fingers over the flesh, fleeing for breaks. Sherlock winced.

“They’ll heal.” He growled.

“Yes they will. They're not broken." John said. He stepped away. "How did you get the scars on your back? A whip?"

“Very astute of you to notice.”

“Is that typical of owners now?” John asked, disgusted. “To beat their slaves with whips?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not always. They'll happily use fists and feet too." When John looked like he was going to vomit, Sherlock continued. "I am a slave, John.” He said the words tiredly, like a repeated mantra that just wouldn’t stick. “Owners can do what they want with slaves. There are no laws protecting us."

"Nothing?"

"I believe owners are not allowed to permanently disable us, in case we get called to work the mines, nor are owners supposed to kill us. Slaves are the property of The Republic."

“Fucking hell."

"Yes."

"Well, that's not going to happen to you anymore, got that? I won't ever hit…" John trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed and looked up after a moment. "Do you have more clothes anywhere?”

“I used to." Sherlock threw his shirt back on. "I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what happened to my things after The Fall.” He said quietly. “After my first owner's house burned, I was homeless and taken off the street.”

John paused. "His house burned down?"

"Not completely, but yes. It was in one of the riots." Sherlock wasn't going to tell John that he was the one who lit the match.

“Do you have family?”

Sherlock snorted. “A brother.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No.” Sherlock said.

“Do you know how to contact him?”

“No. He wouldn’t be a slave, the old git." Sherlock said after a moment. "He used to be the government.”

_"Be_ the government?"

"Mm-hm."

“Hm.”John opened the desk drawer, pulling his red Samsung laptop out and handing it over, quickly closing the drawer to hide his Sig. Sherlock grabbed the computer eagerly, his eyes alight with glee, and flipped it open. His fingers flew over the keys as John stood and went into the kitchen, returning moments later with two mugs in hand. Sherlock navigated to a page and thrust the laptop in John’s direction when he returned.

“The Science of Deduction?” He read the title of the blue and grey webpage. “Consulting detective—you?” He glanced at Sherlock. “You’re a detective?”

“ _Was_ a detective.” Sherlock said moodily.

“The Fall took care of that.” John added, more for his own benefit.

“Yes.”

"Your owner didn't allow you to work?"

John didn't hear how stupid this sounded. Sherlock stared at him and the doctor got the impression his new flatmate was thinking that he was a colossal idiot.

"It was hardly a friendly arrangement, doctor. You saw my scars and bruises. You saw the auction house. Under Moran I was kept tied from morning to night‒my brain, my _hard drive,_ has surely atrophied from disuse." The bitterness in his voice was scathing and John's heart swelled. The way he seemed to hunch in on himself as he talked screamed discomfort and John got a dark feeling in his gut. Sherlock had said there were basically no real laws protecting slaves. If that was the case, then really, anything could have happened. Not all bruises were visible. "I was left alone and when I wasn't alone…" he paused, looking away, "well, you saw the condition I was in. So no, John, Moran did _not_ allow me to work."

Silence fell over the room. John clicked through the website and Sherlock leaned his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Was Moran the only one who owned you?"

At this, Sherlock looked away self consciously, his brows pinching slightly in pain. "Technically, no," he said. _Moriarty._ Sherlock blinked at the image of himself chained and hunched on the floor as Moriarty and Moran stood over him. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter now though." He added airily. "Why John?" He looked up, the self-consciousness gone. "Eager to sell?"

"What!? No! Just curious. I don’t know how all this works. I don't know if people have more than one owner or if they're allowed to sell‒nothing. I'm completely new at this, Sherlock, so I'd appreciate it if you bear with me and my stupid questions."

"Hell knows I'm used to stupid questions." Sherlock muttered. "A Detective Inspector I used to work closely with at Scotland Yard tried to buy me right after The Fall, but he was unsuccessful," Sherlock said quietly. John waited, expecting Sherlock to elaborate on this person. He didn't. "Being owned isn't terribly conducive to maintaining a cheery frame of mind. What are you going to do with me?"

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I heard the exchange. You didn't plan on coming back home with a slave. Judging by the quality of this clothing and this flat, your pension won't be enough to cover the cost of keeping me. That soldier was right about the whore houses. I could be sold for a lot of money."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd felt vaguely insulted about the jibe to his clothes (that he had let Sherlock wear, thanks) and the flat (crappy as it was), but now he was horrified again.

"No I don't want to sell you into prostitution." John growled. "I'm not in the business of becoming a slave owner or sex trafficker!"

Sherlock smiled. "But John, you _are_ a slave owner now."

That struck John like a slap to the face. For some reason he hadn't thought of it that way. He'd been so intent on getting Sherlock away from that wretched auction house and ensuring that he would never be in such a state again that he hadn't even considered the fact that the very action of doing so would make him a slave owner. John suddenly felt very tired. Sherlock seemed amused.

"Oh God…" John rubbed his hands over his face. Sherlock rose and plucked the computer from John's lap, sitting on the floor with his back to the bed. He navigated to his webpage and posted a note.

_After a hiatus due to the recent world domination, I am now resuming cases again. As ever, don't be boring. Sherlock Holmes._

He closed the lid.

* * *

 

"Mike!" John waved at the man walking into the pub the next day, getting his attention. Stamford gave John a cheery smile and wove around the tables to the booth in the back where John was seated, staring at his lager.

"Hey John." He slid onto the bench seat.

"Hi Mike. Glad you could make it for lunch." John said.

"Sure, no problem. How's things? How's your slave‒what's his name?"

John sighed and the waitress, young woman, green nylon collar adorning her throat, came over. Mike ordered lunch, John got an appetizer and asked her to keep the beer coming.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He's…fine. I think." John said. He opened his mouth again, then closed it. Mike waited patiently. "Bloody hell, Mike!" John exclaimed. "I'm a slave owner!"

Mike smiled humorlessly. "Yeah, you are."

"I can't believe this happened. That the world fell so…so quickly. Sherlock, he's so… I mean, he speaks of it so frankly. Like it happened to someone else."

"We're all adapting, John. It'll take time. Thanks again for taking him off me. Really, they're cutting hours at the hospital, and I'm living check to check."

"Any openings?" John asked.

"They're not hiring. They haven't hired since The Fall. Sorry."

"That's okay. Things are a little more expensive than I'd planned for, but that's what you get when you take in another person."

"What's he like?" Mike asked.

"He's…" Hell, how to describe Sherlock Holmes? "He's smart. Very smart. He used to be a private detective before all this shit went down. He had an owner before me, and it sounds like the guy was a real arsehole. He's…prickly. Very closed off. "

"Well, can you blame him? He'll need time, John, I'm sure. You haven't even had him a month."

"Yeah. I'm trying to give him space and he seems to be opening up a little bit…"

"That's all you can do, mate." Mike said. "It sounds like he hasn't had a lot of kindness since The Fall. Everyone is adapting. Everyone is making do with these new lifestyles. You're a good man, John. Sherlock will be fine."

* * *

 

John felt a bit better after Mike's chat, and when he returned home, he and Sherlock hopped on the Tube. It was thankfully still running, though now soldiers, all in black, prowled the stations and some of the cars. He and Sherlock got on and got seats and as the train pulled away John saw an advertisement on the wall for an organization called Funds for Families that was showing how slavery was destroying everything and pulling thousands of children away from their parents. Only upon seeing that poster, with it's distressing depiction of a group of black-clad soldiers literally pulling two parents away from their child, did the extent of The Republic's strength and firepower occur to him. That river element, the Jing whatsis, must be insanely powerful if it was able to allow The Republic to produce weapons that were so strong they could conquer literally the whole planet. He thought of what he knew about England's military, then combined with the US, Japan, Canada, Australia and more, and _still_ The Republic allies were winning.

John was angry. The riots and the skirmishes made sense. He was glad people were fighting back. He looked at the poster again. If that was the kind of shit people were dealing with, getting angry and crushing The Republic sounded like a good idea.

They got off after a few stops and went to a shopping center to hit a hair place first.

"You go on in." John told him. "I'll be there in a minute." John watched Sherlock speak to the receptionist (a thin gold chain collar around his neck) and get escorted to the back of the shop. John found a cash machine and took out more money. He chewed at his lip as the machine warbled and spat out some notes. He'd been keeping a loose running tally in his head of the money he'd been spending, and he hoped this didn't put him over his limit. Sherlock had been annoyingly right about how much he was spending.

John sat on a leather sofa in the waiting area, perusing a magazine that was three years out of date. The Fall had apparently put the mainstream magazines out of print as well. Twenty minutes, and Sherlock reappeared with much shorter, cleanly cut hair. It wasn’t as short as John would have thought he would cut it, but the flouncy dark locks suited him.

John paid for the cut (not too bad) and handed Sherlock his card and told him to buy new clothes. He sat on a bench, his leg irritating him, as his new flatmate ran off. John's spare jeans and shirts did the job, but now that the detective was coming out of his shell a little more, John was glad he wanted to get his own clothes. It was a step towards normalcy‒towards two flatmates living together and not a master living with his slave. Sherlock returned less than half an hour later with a single shopping bag in his hand and a much-relaxed demeanor. He had changed into a dark blue shirt with pearly white buttons and a dark pair of jeans. He glanced away in a sort of shy self-conscious way as he handed John's card back.

They got back home without incident and John opened the cabinet, thinking about dinner. Something easy and nonoffensive. Soup? Soup would work, with sandwiches…

"John?"

"Hm?" John looked at Sherlock.

"Can I use the laptop again?"

"Sure. You don't need to ask. It's in the drawer." _The gun!_ His brain screamed. He'd forgotten about the Sig in the drawer. "‒Oh wait!" John darted out of the kitchen and cut in front of Sherlock, opening the desk drawer and puling the laptop out quickly. "Here." He pushed it at Sherlock. The detective raised a brow and took the machine, heading for his sofa room. John was quietly pleased that Sherlock left the door open, offering a perfect view from the kitchen, settling on the cushions with the computer on his knees. Hopefully that meant he was getting more comfortable in John's presence even though he was keeping his distance.

"Don't bother hiding the gun on my account." Sherlock called. "I won't tell."

"You saw it?" John said after a beat of silence.

"No, but what else could it be? You're a discharged military man who wants to hide something small enough to fit in a drawer. It wouldn't be drugs, you could keep those much better camouflaged in your medical bag," Sherlock nodded in the direction of the brown leather bag in the corner opposite John's bed, "and anyway, you are not a drug addict. You just got back to the country, and based on this flat and that stack of boxes in this room, you don't have many personal possessions. So, something you brought home with you. A gun." Sherlock went quiet, reading the page he'd navigated to.

"Amazing." John breathed.

Sherlock blinked and looked up from the page, an open, vulnerable look on his face. "What is?"

"That‒what you just did. What you said."

"Really?" His voice was quiet. Hopeful.

"Yes. How do you _see_ everything like that?" John's voice was breathy with awe.

"I observe and deduce. It's how I made my living." Sherlock said patiently. He paused, then added in a small voice, "do you really think it was amazing?"

"Definitely. How do you know I'm not a drug addict?" John asked.

"Please." Sherlock glanced John over. "You're not. I know what drug addiction looks like."

"How?" John blurted, wanting to somehow understand the easy way Sherlock had just leaped to all the right conclusions, his brain trapezing gracefully from one right answer to the next while John was still stuck on the mat.

"Homeless, remember?" Sherlock murmured. "A mirror once told me."

John went very still. "Are you clean now?"

"Yes." Sherlock snipped.

John turned to the food. Good. Clean was good. It hadn't even occurred to John that Sherlock could be an addict. Or a criminal. Was he? Probably not, though honestly he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

* * *

 

Sherlock looked over his website. Four new cases since they had gone out! Excellent. The first one: _Dear Mr. Holmes, I am writing to you on the recommendation of my‒_ blah blah blah‒ _my car was stolen and inside was an expensive GPS‒_ boring. Ignored. Next case: _Mr. Holmes, several recently purchased tomato plants have been stolen off my doorstep‒_ tomato plants? Did people even know who he was?! Delete. Third time's a charm: _Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, after some careful analysis, I suspect my husband of cheating‒_ Sherlock let out a frustrated snarl and almost shoved the laptop onto the floor.

"Are you okay?" John called from the kitchen.

"Fine. Fine. Just forgot what it was like to deal with the masses…" Sherlock growled. He skipped ahead to the last case. _Mr. Holmes, I think my car has been stolen‒_

Bloody hell! Was this what he had to deal with now? Where had the criminal classes gone? Where were all the serial killers and decapitators and amoral surgeons? For fuck's sake, it was like he was destined to go mad. Scowling, he reread the cases on the page. Blah blah, tears and sentiment. He had half a mind to delete all the cases here and wait from something actually _interesting_ , and yet…he was pretty rusty. He'd had fun deducing his lesbian hair stylist, but annoyingly could not figure out if the tiny black hairs on her white trousers were from a dog or cat. His brain, worryingly, had even thrown a chinchilla into the mix. Sherlock glowered at his reflection in the screen. Uncertainty. Doubt. After months and months under Moran's hand, his brain had lost a lot of its firepower. The halls were dusty and he needed to blow the cobwebs away and this case, boring as it was, might be enough to get the gears oiled. Practice made perfect, right? A fleeting thought about the violin flicked through his brain, sharing a synapse with 'practice' and he pushed it away. Not now.

The last case, for the stolen car, seemed slightly more entertaining than stolen tomato plants, and Sherlock sent the victim an email saying he was going to come by that evening. The man's address was not near here and no way would John want to go out with him again today. Sherlock could tell his leg was aching and the doctor looked exhausted. Without a collar, and given his general weakness from both the auction house and the fever, Sherlock shouldn't even be considering going out‒that's what John would say, Sherlock knew. Would John forbid him leaving though? No…likely not. Sherlock got a funny fluttering feeling in his chest. John _would_ let him go. John would let him do whatever he wanted, though he most certainly would not be keen on letting him go investigate a case on the other side of London on his own, not as night was approaching.

"Sherlock." John said. "I made some soup and sandwiches if you’re interested. You should really eat, given how underweight you are…" Sherlock watched John dither in the doorway and he stood up. He'd appease John now, because he fully planned on lying like a rug to get his way after the meal.

 


	5. Brave New World

"Thank you for the meal, John." Sherlock took his bowl and plate to the sink to wash, his belly now full of a bowl of French onion soup and half a turkey and swiss sandwich. He wouldn't need to eat again for ages.

"You're welcome." John said. He brought his plates to the sink too. Sherlock took them to wash. "You can eat whenever you want, you know. All the food here belongs to both of us."

"Thank you." Sherlock murmured. John squeezed his shoulder in a friendly way and moved for the desk and Sherlock almost felt bad about the lie he was going to tell. Almost. "John?" He turned off the water, dried his hands and followed. He wanted to get moving. This dumb case wasn't going to solve itself. The engine in his skull was stalling. "Um," he looked down, trying to appear meek and unsure (honestly it wasn't too hard, not after being enslaved), "can I go out for a bit? On my own? It's just, Moran never let me out," that at least was true, "and I'd like to just, kind of explore." _Explore my way over to a client's house and find his stupid car…_

"Of course." John said. "You don't need my permission to leave, Sherlock. I don't mind a bit."

"Great!" Sherlock turned, went out the door, and was gone with a _slam_. John blinked. Well, okay. He'd have liked a little more information. Sherlock didn't have a phone, so John had no idea when he'd be back…or where he was going… he thought again of how he didn’t actually know the laws regarding loose slaves. Though, Sherlock knew this world and these laws better than he did. If the man thought he’d be okay, then he’d probably be fine. John went to get his computer that Sherlock had left on his sofa. He entered the tiny room and realized how dark it was in here. There were no windows, and the light bulb socket in the ceiling was empty. _Fantastic, well done John. Way to make him feel like less of a slave in the pitch black arse closet._ He pulled a box out of his stack of clothes and items and fumbled for a desk lamp he knew was in there. He grabbed it and an extension cord and set it on the floor in the corner, running the cord along the wall to the outlet near the desk. There. Now Sherlock could have light in his room. Satisfied, John went to the desk and opened his computer, heading for his blog. He wouldn't worry about Sherlock. He was an intelligent adult and John didn't need to pry in his affairs. He'd try to get an entry in, maybe read up on the laws and look for a job too.

He loaded the BBC news site first and got an error message. Odd. Another main news page revealed the same thing. He tried several more, typing in addresses only to get the same 'page not found' message. Finally in his frustration he typed 'news' into the search bar and clicked. A random assortment of personally owned blogs popped up. Frowning, he clicked one, _realnews.blogspot.com_. A quick perusal made it clear it was written by a group of Uni-age kids in Glasgow. Each of them contributed articles written up of local goings-on and conspiracies and what were possibly real tidbits of information tossed in the mix. Comments to articles were generally by the same people and included lots of arguments and capital letters.

He found another page simple called _The Source_ that was operated by a serious-faced young woman who was clearly trying her damndest to make the page look like how real news pages used to look, complete with sections and weather and the like. It was amateur at best, and John sat back in his chair. All the professional news websites were gone, leaving people scrambling to replace them using a cobbled together knowledge of web design, html, research and writing ability. Who was verifying this information? If The Republic didn't want news to get out, why were they allowing the sites to exist? They had to be aware of their existence. Granted, the little bio of the page owner said she was a pre-Fall graduate of Princeton with a degree in Political Science and she promised that all the information presented was as correct as she could manage. " _I don't work alone, as I'm not Wonder Woman,"_ the bio continued, _"I have…'help' in other countries (I refuse to call them quadrants/territories/areas)._ The Source _is global, and we're doing the best we can to give you real news…"_ John bookmarked the page. It seemed a better resource than many of the other search results. It was terrifying though‒this is what they had to work with now. Random citizens pecking out information on their own websites was now world news.

Not surprisingly, he found the official 'Republic' website with ease and he scrolled through the posted disturbingly sparse slave laws. Thirty minutes later didn't leave him feeling better about this brave new world. What he _had_ gathered in the half hour was basically, in a nutshell, that slaves had no rights. All slaves wore collars. If crimes were committed against them, they would get very little support and would have to rely essentially on local vigilante police forces taking on their cases out of goodwill. Scotland Yard had been reduced to the keepers of nonviolent crime‒burglary, cats up trees, breaking and entering. Owners could do more or less whatever they wanted to their slaves. It was sick. It was even more terrifying than the disappearance of the news sources. More web searching proved his conclusions and he felt ill at the thought the he would be completely within his rights should he choose to chain Sherlock to the radiator and deprive him of healthy food and medicine and hygiene. It was a heady, alarming sense of power that he didn’t want to have.

John quickly shifted gears, deciding to look for a job now. Medicine made sense, not like the new laws. Several jobs looked appealing. There was one surgery located near Regent’s Park that seemed the most promising. His flat now was, unfortunately, not near there at all. If only he could afford a flat that was closer, anything near the south of Regent’s Park would be great…assuming he got the job, that is. John glanced at the clock and blinked. It had been hours and Sherlock wasn’t back yet. Sherlock really needed a phone, but a brand new phone for his flatmate was the last thing John could afford right now. Even _he_ didn’t have a new phone. That reminded him—he needed to give Harry a call.

Sherlock wasn’t back when John went to sleep, but he figured that his new slave could find his way home. Sherlock certainly wasn’t stupid. He knew how to navigate London. Hell, maybe he’d found an old girlfriend or boyfriend and was spending the night. He left the door unlocked, put his phone on the bedside table, made sure his gun was nearby (just in case) and went to try to go to sleep.

* * *

 

Sherlock strode up to the brick house and rang the bell. The door was opened by a portly, worried looking man.

"Are you Mister 'olmes?" He asked.

"Yes. Mr. Mortimer?"

"That's me. Come in."

Sherlock entered the home and looked around. Married. Two adult children all moved out. No pets, but evidence that there had once been a dog around. It didn't take a detective to see that someone in the house fancied themselves an artist. Paintings of various levels of skill were _everywhere._

"Tell me about your case. Don't be boring." _Too late for that_ , he thought to himself.

"Oh, ah…well, me car was stolen. I 'ad it three nights ago, parked an' locked an' everything, and now it's gone."

"May I see where it was parked?"

"'Course."

Mr. Mortimer escorted Sherlock to the drive where the beige Volkswagen had been parked. The detective crouched on the pavement, checking the asphalt for signs of evidence. Tire marks and an oil patch, fresh. Nothing unique or outstanding though. "Does anyone else have access to the car?" Sherlock asked, standing upright again. There was no answer and he turned around. Mr. Mortimer was fidgeting in the doorway, looking very much like a chastised schoolboy.

"Mr. Mortimer?" Sherlock prompted. "Whatever your sordid affairs, I don’t care. I'm here to help you find your car. That's all."

"Well, I'm married, see, but I've been seein' this real nice lady what sometimes pops 'round the office‒"

"You're having an affair?" Sherlock clarified.

"Yes."

"Does she have access to your car?"

"No."

"Are you still living with your wife?"

"Yeah…"

"Does _she_ have access to the car?" Oh but this was a dull case.

"Well, yeah. It's her car."

"Your wife has the car, Mr. Mortimer. Have a pleasant evening." Sherlock turned to go, annoyed he'd wasted the cab fare, when‒

"Wait! Louise's never taken the car for this long. I think she might suspect me in my affair, you know? Maybe she's off doing something bad with it?"

"Bad how?"

"I don't know…maybe somethin's happened to her? Maybe she's distraught. Please, Mr. 'olmes, you gotta find 'er. She's my wife!"

Sherlock sighed. He never thought he'd be entertaining a case like this. Never. He also never thought the known world would get conquered and half the population would be forced into slavery. A silly case was a small price to pay, he supposed. He had to stop thinking of it as a waste of time and focus on greasing the engine in his skull.

"Fine." Sherlock agreed.

It didn't take too long, really. Twenty minutes on Mortimer's computer, and Sherlock had GPS-traced the wife's phone. It felt good, actually, to get back in the groove of things. To remember how to hack and track. He was quite pleased he could still do it. The GPS coordinates were for an address that was about a fifteen minute drive away. Sherlock hailed a cab and got out near the indicated house. It was a plain brick home, not unlike Mr. Mortimer's. And sure enough, there was the Volkswagen as the man had described it. Sherlock went over to it, glancing in the windows. Some old food wrappers on the floor and pair of gloves. A paintbrush in the cup holder. Sherlock straightened and looked up at the house. A relative's house, maybe? He crept along the back and into the garden, pausing when he saw a flight of cement steps leading down and then an ajar door that opened into a sort of cellar. Perfect. He could sneak in and find out if Mrs. Mortimer was in the house, then sneak out and go back to the cheating husband. He turned and stepped‒crashing his foot directly into something heavy and ceramic before losing his balance. He careened for a moment, his arms windmilling as he tried to regain his footing. He collapsed down the steps with a yelp, the heavy ceramic thing following with a rhythmic _thunk-clank_ down each stair. Elbows bashed concrete and knees scraped cement as he toppled and rolled like some demented lanky tumbleweed, directly through the ajar door. He came to a halt beside a big tackle box and lay there, stunned and sore. His ribs hadn't been broken before, but they might be now, and a spot on his skull above his ear was burning something fierce. He allowed himself to lay there for a few moments, mortified and aching. _Idiot!_ He screamed at himself. _I knew I was out of practice, but this is just embarrassing!_ Sherlock turned his head and saw what he had tripped on. A gnome. A bleeding statue of a decorative lawn gnome was laying there smiling at him through it's stupid white beard. Somehow the fact that it was such a stupid tacky statue that had been his literal downfall made the whole experience even more humiliating.

There was a noise above him, and a light was flicked on at the top of a set of stairs on the other side of the cellar. Sherlock scrambled up, then winced as his sore body yelled at him. He made a break for it anyway, then tripped over the gnome again. His big toe screamed and he was forced to stop, clutching his foot in one hand. It was then that he felt the blood drip into his eye.

"Who the hell are you?!" An angry, deep voice bellowed.

Sherlock couldn't speak yet, as the pain in his head had increased tenfold in response to the throbbing in his foot. Something heavy and rough and fishy-smelling was flung over him and he squeaked in surprise before finding his voice.

"Get this off me! I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm looking for Mrs. Mortimer." Whatever was around him‒it felt like a net‒tightened, and he sat down before he fell again.

"A thief‒that's what you are!" The guy, a very stout gentleman in a dressing gown, bellowed. He produced a mobile and dialed. "I'm calling the police."

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. This really could not have gone worse.

* * *

 

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was not thrilled to be woken up in the middle of the night. It was his night off after _four_ straight night shifts, didn't they get that? He needed a work-life balance too. Who was he kidding. The Chief Superintendent, along with the rest of the bleeding world, was under The Republic's heavy thumb. Were there such things as nights off anymore? He groaned and reached out of the blankets for the trilling phone and made an affirmative noise at it.

" _Sorry Greg,"_ the dispatcher's voice said, " _breaking and entering. A slave. No major injuries…"_ he read off an address and apologized for calling on Greg's night off. It was nice that _some_ one cared.

"Okay…be there in ten…" Greg clicked off and rolled out of bed, rubbing his hand through his hair and digging in the dark for fresh clothes. Since when did B and E's become their division? Since The bloody Republic, that's when. Greg grabbed his badge and left his flat, his thoughts already back in the bed.

If there was one thing to be thankful for, it was that the scene wasn't far. Greg pulled up, light and siren off, to a two story brick house. A portly man in an undershirt and trousers was standing by the front stoop, looking highly annoyed. Beside him was a woman wrapped in a man's over-sized dressing gown, her arms crossed tight as she paced a little to and fro on the grass. Sitting on the front stoop, hand pressed to skull, was a figure Greg didn't think he'd ever see again.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade walked up to the former detective and crouched down, noticing then that Sherlock was sitting in what appeared to be a huge fishing net pooled on the ground. Odd. Well, wait, no it was Sherlock so therefore it wasn't odd at all. "Hell, where've you been, mate?"

"Hey, this Neanderthal broke into my house!" The man yelled.

"Ne _ande_ rthal?" Sherlock looked up at him, then winced and looked forward again.

"You?" Greg said, "you're the trespasser?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "Minor miscalculation. Wasn't expecting to see Physeter macrocephalus over here."

"What did you call me?!" The man was spluttering with rage.

" _Physeter macrocephalus_." Sherlock repeated. "Less specifically, a sperm whale."

"Sherlock‒" Greg put a hand out to try and shush the detective.

"How dare you! This is my home that he broke into‒I found him in the cellar!"

Greg sighed a weary, put upon sigh that only seemed to escape his lungs when Sherlock Holmes was involved. Despite The Fall, Sherlock was still causing trouble and pissing everyone off. Some things never changed.

"I'm supposed to take you in, you know." Greg said, ignoring the couple for now. He glanced at the spot Sherlock was favoring on his head. "What happened?"

"Fell down some steps. Bumped my head."

"Concussion?"

"No."

"Is there anyone who can come pick you up?" Greg asked.

"I can get home on my own." Sherlock told him. He blinked a few times and stood up, wavering on his feet. It was only then that Greg saw how beat up and gaunt Sherlock looked.

"Jesus, you look like hell."

"Cheers."

"What about my house!?" The homeowner actually stamped his foot in anger. The woman put her hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off.

Greg opened his mouth, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Your husband is cheating on you," he said to her, "as you are cheating on him. I would suggest counseling or divorce, though you two are clearly made for each other. Oh‒" he looked at the man, "and if you don't want people breaking into your house‒don't leave your cellar door open all night long."

The wife went lily-white, eyes wide, while the whale stood there, his mouth agape. Sherlock turned and started to shuffle away.

"I don't think so." Greg said, catching his arm to keep him from toppling. "You wouldn't even make it to the street without help, much less back to…where do you live now?"

"Not nearby." Sherlock blinked again. His skull throbbed and his blood pounded in his ears. He closed his eyes.

"I'm taking you home."

Sherlock's mild glare didn't deter him and he shook his clutched arm. "You don't need to _cling_ so, Lestrade."

"Can you promise me that you won't fall on your face if I let go?" Greg asked.

Sherlock didn't answer and he allowed the officer to escort him to the car. For all the whale knew, Lestrade was arresting him.

"So." Greg said when they were seated.

"No, Lestrade. No small talk, no chit chat. I was a slave and still am. Take me home."

"Well, I _was_ going to take you in to get booked and fingerprinted and possibly even whipped‒they do that to slaves now, y'know‒ but since you asked me _so_ nicely…" Lestrade was unable to keep the sarcasm at bay as he started the engine. It was too early in the morning to deal with an injured and snappy Sherlock. The detective gave him John's address and they drove off.

* * *

 

_*Buzz!*_

_*Buuuzzzz!*_

“Wuzzat?” John woke up from his fitful doze and squinted into the dark room. Confusion fogged his brain before he registered the weird buzzing as the doorbell and not a gigantic wasp come to call. He'd never heard it before.

He got up and stumbled to the door, pulling it open.

A salt and pepper-haired man was standing on his stoop in jeans and a light brown jacket. His shiny gold copper's badge glinted in the yellow streetlamp light. For a moment John thought this had something to do with Afghanistan. Hot on the heels of that thought was that something had happened to Harry. Then he looked over and saw the officer's hand wrapped around the bicep of Sherlock, who was bleeding next to him.

The sight of the blood snapped John into wakefulness. "Oh Jesus…" He reached out to steady Sherlock and both he and the copper guided him inside.

"I'm not a child!" Sherlock whined.

"No, you're bleeding from the head." John snipped. "Sit down." They deposited Sherlock in a kitchen chair and John flipped the light on. The bulb was dim in the small space. "What the hell happened? I thought you were just going to go 'exploring.'"

Sherlock didn't answer and John glanced up at Greg, who was standing there trying not to feel awkward. The doctor remembered his manners and he and Greg introduced themselves. John got the distinct impression that this Lestrade had met Sherlock before tonight. "What's he done?" At this hour of night, John didn't mince words.

"Breaking and entering. Got himself injured on the head."

"Motherf‒" John scrubbed a hand through his hair and went over to Sherlock, gently laying a hand on his shoulder and tilting his head up with two fingers. Lestrade went and turned the light over the stove on to add to the shoddy glow. Sherlock winced at the movement and the light. "It's not bad." John soothed. "Bleeding, and I imagine it hurts a bit, but it's shallow. I'll get my bag."

Greg watched John get his bag and sit down beside Sherlock. The detective was being eerily quiet throughout and it was kind of nice.

"Lestrade, why don't you make yourself useful and get some coffee started?" Sherlock muttered.

So much for that. Greg opened his mouth to speak, but John jumped up. "Sorry‒! I should have offered‒"

"No, no." Greg waved him away. "I can do it. Where d'you keep it?" Greg walked over to the machine and soon they all had mugs of coffee that were strong enough to get up and walk. Greg watched as John carefully patched up Sherlock's head and gave him some pills. "There you go," John said, his voice pitched down to soothing. Greg decided that anyone who could speak so calmly to Sherlock of all people this early in the morning was a force to be reckoned with. "All done. Take more painkillers tomorrow if it hurts."

Sherlock murmured a grudging thank you as John rose to clean up.

"Where've you been, mate?" Lestrade asked.

"I was a victim of The Fall, Detective Inspector." Sherlock said, his voice slightly sarcastic. "I was owned and then I was in an auction house and then I got gifted to the noble doctor."

At the sink, John rolled his eyes.

"So are you back on cases now?" Lestrade asked.

A pained expression passed over the detective's face that had nothing to do with the head wound. "I'd like to be." He murmured.

"But…" Lestrade prompted. "Sherlock, it can't be like it was before."

" _Obviously_. These, these," he waved his hand dismissively, "stupid _law_ things weren't in place before."

"How was it before?" John asked them, sitting back down and taking up his mug.

"I ran my own detective business." Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah, he helped my team out between his own cases." Greg said.

"So…" John raised his brows.

Greg glanced at the fuming figure of Sherlock before looking at John. "Slaves can't run their own businesses. They're not allowed to."

"Ah." John nodded. A thought popped into his head. Sure, he wasn't as smart as the detective, and he'd never solved a crime in his life, but he had something Sherlock didn't: a free person's status. His status plus Sherlock's desire to be a crime fighter meant that this just might work after all. "What if… _I_ were to become a detective?"

Sherlock looked at him like he'd just claimed to be a wizard. "John, with all due respect, from what I've seen, your deductive powers‒"

"‒of course," John interrupted, leaning forward and lowering his voice a notch, "I would need _an assistant._ My very own slave to help me out with my business. _"_

Sherlock lifted his head, understanding. Both men glanced at the police officer.

"Yeah," Lestrade said. "What you're suggesting is technically illegal now."

"But if everything is in my name…." John added.

"It's rather informal anyway." Sherlock said. "I have a website. People write in with cases. I help them and they pay me."

"If they just write the checks to me," John threw in, "then the paper trail would just lead back to me. Me and my trusty, indispensable assistant."

Lestrade was pinching the bridge of his nose, really wishing he was back in bed. "I shouldn't be hearing this." He dropped his hand down and reached for his coffee. "Although," he swallowed the milky brew, "it would be a shame for you to be off cases. For both the general populace and my own arse. Is there any chance that the bloke who called the police on you tonight is going to report a crime-solving slave?"

"No." Sherlock scoffed. "All he cares about is that I was breaking and entering. He's probably back to his mistress by now."

John and Sherlock were quiet, watching the officer hopefully. Greg set his mug down after a long draught. "Fine. I'll turn a blind eye to this‒but," he pointed at Sherlock, "you're helping me with cases again. Anonymously, just like before‒"

"Agreed."

"‒and if anyone gets even a _sniff_ of the fact that you two are running this little scheme, my name doesn't get mentioned. At all."

"Agreed." John and Sherlock spoke at the same time, grinning devilishly.

Lestrade sighed. "God help us."

"You don't need God's help, Lestrade." Sherlock's voice was dripping with smug. "You have mine."

"Have you heard him do his deductions?" Lestrade asked John. He nodded. "I wish our lot were half as good. It's like a bleeding superpower with him…"

John could practically see the peacock in the detective preening at the praise, not diminished at all by the bandages decorating his head.

"I don't mind doing this with you, Sherlock," John said to him, "but there has to be an understanding here before we go any further."

He looked up at him, wary.

"No more lies, understand? You lying to me to go out and then getting yourself arrested? Not going to happen again."

"I didn't _plan_ on getting arrested. Would you have let me out if I told you I was going on a case?"

"Of course!" John nearly shouted. "You're an adult, you're not a rutting slave to me. I wouldn't have _liked_ you going out, seeing how unhealthy and bruised you are, but I can't keep you here against your will."

"Well, technically Doc, you can." Lestrade added.

Sherlock gave him a glare that could melt iron.

Lestrade continued. "He's legally yours now. You can do whatever you want with him‒really. Short of you killing one of 'their' slaves, The Republic won't care what you do with him."

Sherlock scowled at the table. "Though honestly," Greg said to him, "it would only be to your advantage to at least try and stay out of trouble‒now I know that's like telling a child to try and not eat an _entire_ bag of sweets, but at least I can say it."

Sherlock continued scowling and picked at a hole torn in the tail of his new shirt.

"You wouldn't just go to jail like in the old days." Greg said to both of them. "No, now they can send you‒anyone really‒ to the pillory or the post."

"Post?" John echoed.

"Public whipping posts." Sherlock told him.

"Seriously?! They'll just beat people in public now?"

"Sometimes it's even televised." Sherlock sipped his coffee. John felt sick.

"I wish I could say he was wrong‒" Lestrade began.

Sherlock laughed, " _that_ will never happen!"

"‒but he's absolutely right."

"Fucking hell…"

"It's a brave new world, Doctor Watson." Sherlock said.

John sighed and clutched his mug. "You can go out, you can do what you want, but for the love of God, stay out of trouble." He murmured. It came out sounding like a plea.

Lestrade glanced down at Sherlock's neck, not expecting to see a collar. He was right.

"You'll also need‒" he started to speak but was cut off with Sherlock's sharp,

" _No_ , Lestrade!"

"It's for your own good!" Lestrade said, startled that Sherlock had even noticed. What was he thinking? Of course he would notice.

"No way." Sherlock growled. "They're wretched and I hate them."

"You can get arrested just for not having one on."

"What are we talking about?" John asked politely.

"Sherlock needs a collar and leash." Greg told him. He snickered, "I've been saying it for years, didn't ever think it would actually come about though."

Sherlock didn't find it amusing.

"I've seen people wearing collars." John mused. "Do we really need one?"

"Yep. All slaves are supposed to have them‒The Republic's rule, not mine," Lestrade added hastily.

"Where do we get one?"

"Nowhere. It's not happening." Sherlock hissed.

"Sherlock," John began, "if this is the law now‒ "

"I won't be _tethered_ like some rowdy beast!" Sherlock's voice was nails and lava.

"I agree completely. You won't be tethered." John said gently. "It's just a stupid thing you need to wear to keep yourself safe." Sherlock didn't say anything. "I don't like it either. I hardly fancy tugging you or anyone that’s not a dog around on a _leash_. Just the thought of someone tripping or getting caught on something‒your neck would snap like a crisp."

Lestrade nodded. "Lot more people we deal with, drunks brought in or domestic disputes, the people have neck injuries from collars."

John shook his head. If he kept shaking his head every time he heard a piece of information that horrified him, it would wag clean off his shoulders.

"You still have marks from that horrible metal collar," John glanced down at the _nearly_ faded scratches on his pale throat. "When those are better, we can look into it, okay?"

"No." Sherlock's voice was small. "I don't want to."

"I don't want to treat your future whip wounds because you were incarcerated for not having a stupid arse collar around your neck‒and if you were in jail, you couldn't work on your cases, right?"

" _We_ , Doc." Greg amended hastily. " _We_ couldn't work on 'our' cases." He sipped more coffee.

Sherlock pouted, not caring about the syntax of what John had just said, then got up and wandered into the other room.

"I think that's as close to a 'maybe' as we'll get." John muttered to Greg.

* * *

 

"I need to go out again." Sherlock said when Lestrade left. John closed his eyes. He was stuffing the card Lestrade had given him into his wallet, complete with mobile and work numbers and his home address. John had given him the same information. Clearly Greg foresaw a future containing many of these sort of situations.

"Please, Sherlock, just stay here. Please. The sun will be up in a few hours‒can't you just wait? I don’t want another copper on my doorstep for _at least_ another day."

"Fine." Sherlock growled. He huffed and sank to the desk chair, curling up in a petulant little ball.

John felt bad, though he wasn't sure why. Suggesting that Sherlock stay in was like trying to explain to a toddler that playing with chainsaws was bad news. Didn't Sherlock see how dangerous the world was now? Or did he just not care?

"Lestrade said something about a fishing net?" John asked carefully. He didn't want to go to sleep while there were sour feelings between them. Asking about his cases might make him forget his current irritation. Sherlock just curled up tighter. "I'm curious. Was the net part of your deduction?"

"What?" Sherlock lifted his head. "No. Not at _all_." He lowered it again carefully, resting his chin on his knees. “That stupid idiot whale caught me—me, John!” Sherlock exploded, rolling out of his curl and up to his feet. “I was so stupidly sloppy—I’m out of practice." Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and moaned, "my mind has turned to oatmeal from all the disuse.”

“Not medically possible.” John said.

Sherlock made a noise of disagreement. This was bound to happen. He hadn’t used his brain, _really_ used his brain in the past three years. He could literally FEEL that he was stupider, and he hated, absolutely hated the feeling. He felt average. Boring. Normal. “Maybe not for simple-minded people like yourself…”

“Sherlock.” John snapped. “You might want to re-think any insults you’re going to give me. You were, after all delivered here by a copper and you have yet another injury!"

Sherlock fell quiet and sulky and he actually looked a little hurt. John backpedaled. "I know it's not your fault that you're hurt, but dammit, Sherlock. Try to take care of yourself, at least for the next few days so your body can heal. You just had a fever too. Just…go slower."

"Why? Why do you care?" Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

John blinked. "Because I just do. Because I don't like seeing you so hell bent on destroying yourself." It was something more than that though. These past days with Sherlock had been a like a splash of bright paint in John's dull grey world. Sherlock was intelligent and interesting and had an unusual line of work. John found that he really was curious about him and he wanted to spend more time with the former detective. Despite his more acerbic qualities, he seemed to be a good person.

"Hit anywhere else besides your head?" John asked.

Sherlock paused.

“Sherlock…”

“I may have bumped my ribs.”

“I’ll check them. How many steps were there?”

“Nine.”

John sighed. “You’re lucky you’re walking. Did you hit them on anything besides the steps?”

“A lawn gnome.” Sherlock said after a beat.

The corners of John's mouth twitched. “There’s a gnome involved now?”

“It was at the top of the steps. I tripped on it. Such a _stupid_ place for a tacky statue!” Sherlock snapped.

“Hm, yes. A decoration meant for a garden that was actually _in_ the garden. How absurd.” John said dryly. He reached into his bag and produced a pen light. "Sit." He said.

“I don’t need to be doted on, John.”

“I’m checking you for a concussion.” John informed him. "Now sit."

He did. “I don’t have a concussion!” He yelled incredulously. "You already looked at my head."

"Yeah, that was before I knew there were nine steps and a gnome involved."

"There's no concussion."

“Oh, you’re a doctor now? Or maybe the lawn gnome diagnosed you while you two were at the bottom of the steps.”

“I’ve gotten hit on the head worse than this.” Sherlock said. “In my line of work, there’s always—there _was—_ an element of danger.

"Did Moran hit your head?" John asked.

Sherlock fell quiet and took a breath. "Among other things." That's all he volunteered and John didn't push it. He slid firmly into doctor mode and clicked the light on, shining it into Sherlock’s right eye. “Did you pass out at all?”

“No.”

“Do you feel faint or dizzy?”

“No.”

“Do you feel nausea?” John switched the light to Sherlock’s other eye.

“This is pointless, John.”

“Ringing in the ears?”

Sherlock sighed. John clicked off the light. “Pupils dilate normally. You’re certainly not confused. Your speech is fine, if not a little unnecessarily caustic. You remember the incident clearly,” John cleared his throat, “lawn gnome and all.”

“No concussion.” Sherlock concluded. John dropped the pen light in his bag. Sherlock stood up. “Yes, very good, doctor, now if you’re done with your games I have to check my site for a case—heaven-willing, an _interesting_ one‒”

“Sit down!” John interrupted, pointing at the chair. “I still have to check your ribs, you still lied to me, and you’re not going anywhere or working on anything and if you try to leave this flat I may decide you need a great, big injection of antibiotics right in your bum.”

Sherlock whirled and glared at John.

“Wouldn’t want your head to get infected.” John added.

Sherlock stared down at John. John glared right back up at Sherlock. After a beat Sherlock sat and John saw the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Lift your shirt.” John told him. Sherlock did and the doctor gently pressed against the bruised skin on Sherlock’s side. He inhaled sharply when John pressed on a particularly sore patch. “Easy, sorry. They don’t feel broken, I think it’s a sprain. You can take my bed.” John pulled away from him. “It’s more comfortable than the sofa.”

“Not tired.” Sherlock said.

“How can you not be tired?” John asked. “We’ve both had a busy day. You especially.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not tired.”

At that moment a chorus of birds outside started twittering, heralding the coming dawn.

John stared out the window, debating about just staying up. “Sherlock, why did you lie to me?”

Sherlock pouted.

“Hm?”

“I wanted to go on the case.”

“You could have gone without lying to me.” John said, washing his hands.

“I needed a bloody collar to leave the flat.”

“We could have bought one.” John said.

Sherlock muttered something and crossed his arms.

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t think you’d let me go on the case.” He snapped. “You’re my owner.”

“Sherlock, I’m not your keeper. If you want to leave the flat, you’re allowed. You can continue your detective work with Lestrade. Do whatever you did when you were free. I took you off Mike because if I didn’t, they would…well, you were there.”

Sherlock’s face took on a stormy look. He was feeling wrong footed and angry and he wanted to be angry with John. He wanted the doctor to yell and scream so he could yell back, but John was being so reasonable. It was nice, and therefore irritating because Sherlock didn't know how to respond. No one had been nice to him in ages.

“Do what you want," John continued, "but keep yourself safe. I know the collars are annoying. I don't like them either, but if it’s a choice between not wearing a collar and getting arrested each time an officer sees you without one‒and risking getting publicly humiliated‒wear the stupid collar. Are you sure you're not tired?”

“If _you’re_ tired, sleep, Doctor.” Sherlock snipped. "I'm staying up."

“Suit yourself.” John said. Might as well try to get a couple hours in. He had the feeling that living with Sherlock was going to be a full time job. He dropped into bed. “Laptop’s there if y’want t’use it…” He murmured.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said quietly.

“‘Welcome.”

Sherlock watched his new owner relax into the tiny bed, his breath evening out as he fell asleep. He couldn’t believe how John hadn’t gotten angry about tonight. Not like Moran would have. Sherlock blinked a few times as he thought of how Moran might have reacted. He would just give Sherlock a brutish beating, tie him tight, and that would be it. Sherlock was certain he’d be too sore to move if this had happened when Moran was his owner. Yet John had taken him home, bought him clothes, and patched him up after he showed up on the doorstep with a copper, _and then offered to help him go back into business_.That was huge. That was…Sherlock didn't know how to feel about that. No one, no one at all had ever done something so selfless for him, had put themselves willingly at risk to make him happy. It was an entirely new emotion that he thought he should be grateful for, but that he'd have to study some more later. Shaking the thoughts away, Sherlock got up and crept into his little closet, feeling something long and thin under his feet. What the hell? Crouching, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the cord, following it until he reached something metal. He found a switch and flicked it. The room filled with soft yellow light and Sherlock smirked at the little lamp. John must have come in here and given him that lamp. Yes, John was good.

Sherlock changed into a Tshirt and tracksuit bottoms and lay down. The pain medicine was kicking in and he found himself relaxing in the warm quiet of the little bedsit that smelled of John and food and dust. It really was a crappy little place. Sherlock made a mental note to call a former acquaintance about that. Satisfied for now, he closed his eyes and drifted towards his mind palace…

_The wind was gone. That must have been tied to the fever, as it hadn't made a reappearance since he got better. He slipped his hands into his coat pockets and walked through his halls, pleased to see that the previously voided walls and floors he'd reconstructed were still there. Fragile, but standing. Moran and Moriarty hadn’t gone in so far after all. Not so far that it couldn't be repaired. It would still take time, lots of time and mental energy, but already he felt stronger. This case had been absurd and dull but it was_ acase. _He was grateful for it even if it wasn't ideal. Grateful to John for giving him permission to continue his work. The engine that was his mind wasn't ripping itself to pieces but it was running. That was more than it had been doing since The Fall. He turned, facing a blank stretch of wall near where he knew his music room was supposed to go beside his anatomy files. Never before had he ever felt even mildly compelled to give anyone else an inch of space in his palace until now. Sherlock added a plain, sturdy wooden door and opened it up, laying the framework for a small space for John._

 


	6. 221B

The Fall had changed everyone's lives, generally for the worse, but no one found the whole thing quite as amusing as James Moriarty. It was so deliciously chaotic and crazy. What were the chances that he would get to experience a complete, savage world takeover in his lifetime? It was utterly inspirational. The Republic lacked in finesse and style, but he couldn't disparage their skill. He almost didn’t mind the fact that he'd had to disappear almost literally overnight and go back underground. Being in the age range that qualified him for the mines had been a bit of a blow, but it was good to have a group of loyal henchmen who knew which documents to falsify and which ones to lose altogether. His Chief of Staff, Sebastian Moran, had been particularly useful in the first hours after The Republic reared its ugly head. James liked useful.

Currently Moriarty was hiding out in a moderately furnished residence located under an old factory in Dublin (one of his bases. He had a few, and was hoping to establish more all over the world eventually. Discreet of course) _,_ an open netbook on his knee cheerfully blasting _The Ultimate BeeGees_. He was wearing jeans and a faded yellow shirt advertising the Bohemian FC. A far cry from his beloved Westwood suits, but blending in was key these days. A chocolate brown collar, so dark it was nearly black, rested on a nearby table. No one owned him (like he'd allow that), but again, blending in with the crowds was key. No one paid attention to a lithe, shabbily dressed slave walking down the street. Even if he was picked up by the police, his documents were all in order and several layers deep. On paper he was Jim, a student owned by his aunt, not Moriarty: Slave Trafficker Galore.

He had a nice little trafficking ring going strong. People paid the most wonderfully exorbitant prices for foreign slaves. A shipment of Latvians were coming in tonight, prime age and health he was assured, and he was looking forward to a swell in his ever-expanding accounts. People couldn't pay him fast enough. The Republic had done the initial hard work of actually enslaving all those poor young things and now James could reap the rewards. Life was excellent.

If he had to find a fly in the ointment, it would be the loss of a particular slave, a rather fine and interesting specimen by the name of Sherlock Holmes. James had been having such fun with Sherlock before The Fall. Shan had botched her job, not surprising‒she was disposed of easily enough though. No harm, no foul. He'd even managed to procure Sherlock once The Republic was through with him and for a few glorious months, he'd had his prize and given said prize to Sebastian Moran.

A keening wail echoed through the wall and Moriarty turned the volume up on his netbook. Slaves. They never shut up.

Moran though…Moriarty saw his eyes flash in the reflection of his screen. Moran had lost dear Sherlock during a riot and a house fire. The clever bastard had escaped and Moriarty had heard nothing of him since. Pity. Moran couldn't be blamed. Not really. It was as if Moriarty had handed a child a Faberge Egg and then had gotten upset with them when they inevitably broke it. Moran just didn't know any better. He was too average, too ordinary to deal with a mind like Sherlock's. Moriarty had been hesitant to allow him Sherlock at all, but a particularly huge deposit from a third party and a promise of a group of Egyptians had put him in a splendid mood and he wanted Moran to know he had done a good job. The Fall would mark the second time Moran had saved his life. So no, Moran was not to be blamed. It was his own fault for losing Sherlock.

The door on the opposite side of the room opened and, speak of the devil, Moran himself walked in. Tall and brunette-ginger, he was muscular and lately had been sporting a beard. He wore dark cargoes and a deep green shirt and had a rifle strapped around his back. A giant tiger tattoo encircled his right bicep and a clawed orange forepaw stretched out from under the shirt and down his arm.

"The Latvians arrived." Moran said.

"Are they as promised?"

"Seem to be."

"Good. I'll be out in a moment…" He minimized the game of Minesweeper he'd been playing and closed a few tabs on the Internet. "Any news on Sherlock?" Moriarty asked as Moran turned to leave.

"No." Moran said in a stiff voice.

"Mm. Pity. I want my favorite toy returned to me, Seb." Moriarty chilled his voice and looked Sebastian straight in the eye.

"I have people on it." Moran said. "He'll be found. He's still in London."

"I know he'll be found. If he isn't, you'll be the first one I skin." He said the words casually, but Sebastian knew it wasn't an idle threat. He'd seen James do worse.

Moriarty closed his netbook, abruptly killing the music, and rose. Stretching, he followed Moran to check out his newest shipment of goods.

* * *

 

“How _did_ you get a net thrown over you anyway?” John asked over breakfast. He and Sherlock were amicably reading the morning paper, swapping sections and eating eggs. Rather, John was eating eggs and trying to get Sherlock to eat them as well. Sherlock’s head wound looked better, though it was difficult to see through his dark hair. Sherlock had eaten meals with him before, but today there was something more, a level of comfort on Sherlock's part that hadn't been present the other day. John suspected Sherlock was pleased with his reaction to the arrest the night before. John had been glad for the opportunity to prove once again to Sherlock that he wasn't a sadistic arsehole.

“I am not as up to form as I once was, and the whale caught me lurking. There was a minor scuffle, and the police were called. I believe you know the rest.”

“I thought there was a stolen car…?”

“There was. The cases on my site were two halves of an idiotic whole. Husband and wife each cheating on each other." Sherlock could barely contain his eye roll and John grinned as the detective folded the paper and slapped it down on the table, then stared at John. "Quite the pair, those two. Wife had the car. It wasn't stolen."

"Ah." John nodded. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Hurts?”

“No.”

“Did you sleep?”

“No.”

“Really? I’d have thought you’d be completely knackered...”

Sherlock continued staring at John, reading the paper.

“What?” John asked, looking up.

“Why didn’t you get angry last night?”

“Because I…didn’t see a reason to?”

“Lestrade could have brought me to the station. Had some nameless numbered soldier beat me for your trouble.”

“All the more reason for me to not get angry.” John said. “Not only is that utterly barbaric, but you’re already injured. I don’t see myself as owning you, Sherlock. I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. You're not my slave, as far as I'm concerned we're flatmates and I'll be damned before I treat you as something inferior. I own my phone and I own my computer, and God help me but I pay for this crap flat. But owning you? No.”

A slow smile spread over Sherlock’s face. “Would you like a new flat?”

“Sure.” John said sarcastically. “Have one handy?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock shrugged. “Lend me your phone.”

John handed the black phone over and Sherlock dialed a number. John watched, chewing his toast as the other end rang a few times and a female voice picked up. It was an older woman by the voice—who sounded thrilled to hear from him. The slave’s face softened as the woman on the other end spoke on and on about this and that. He leaned back in the chair as she rambled, a glazed look coming over his eyes, and John smirked. Finally, after ten minutes, they exchanged goodbyes Sherlock hung up.

“Have you been to Baker Street?” He asked.

“Baker Street?” John said with a laugh. “You have a flat on Baker Street?” John supposed it wasn't that funny, really. For all he knew, Sherlock could be the heir to an airline company in addition to being a detective.

“Might. If I did, would you be interested?” At John’s incredulous expression, Sherlock grinned.

* * *

 

They took the Jubilee Line and twenty minutes later John and Sherlock walked up to a little red awning over a café called _Speedy’s ._ Beside the café was a green door labeled 221B in gold letters. The green door opened, revealing an older woman in a purple dress with a big smile on her face.

“Sherlock!” She said, coming out to meet him.

“Mrs. Hudson…” They embraced and John smiled.

“I hoped you were alright.” She said into his shoulder. “Everything is so atrocious now.”

“I was fine, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock assured her. John didn't call him on his lie.

“Oh, you know how I worry. Especially about you, you’re so sweet.”

John’s eyebrows went up. Sweet? Kittens were sweet. Jam and cupcakes were sweet. Sherlock Holmes? Not so much.

“What happened to your head?” She exclaimed. She reached up and ran thin, ringed fingers over the hair near Sherlock’s wound. John noticed how Sherlock simply leaned down and let her touch him, giving her none of the backtalk he gave John when he wanted to examine his head. Mrs. Hudson gave John a reproving glare and squeezed Sherlock's arm. “Who hurt you?!” She demanded.

“I fell. It’s fine.” He gently rested his hands on her forearms, bending his knees to lower down and look in her eyes. "I just fell." He assured her. "Nothing more."

“You need to be more careful—that cut looks nasty. Have you had a doctor look at it?"

“A doctor _has_ looked at it, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock said patiently. He nodded at John. “This is my new owner. Doctor John Watson.”

“We’re flatmates.” John insisted. “I just met Sherlock.”

“Oh it’s terrible what they’ve done now—all these slaves and owners and—” She made a sound of disgust.

“Yes, I agree.” John said. He wanted to be on his possibly future landlady’s good side.

“You're a good one, though, I can tell." She winked at him and John glanced at Sherlock. The detective shrugged. "Come on,” she said, grabbing both their sleeves and pulling them into the flat. “It’s available—it has been since the horrid Fall. No one seems to have money anymore—of course, for you Sherlock it would be discounted. There’s two floors and a full bath and kitchen….”

Mrs. Hudson ticked off details about the flat as she led them up a creaky set of wooden stairs. The place had an old-wood spice, slightly musty air about it. The odd wallpaper and scent of fresh baking pastries gave it a homey, unique feel.

They stepped into the sitting room. It was furnished, that was a plus. There was more odd wallpaper and two large windows that let in lots of light. There was even a fireplace. John turned and glanced into the kitchen. This was clearly an old building, as the cabinets were old and the countertops dinged up. The green stained glass doors framing the kitchen area were an interesting choice. The fridge and kitchen table were new though, and John found he liked the mix of old and new.

“There’s two bedrooms.” Mrs. Hudson said. “If you’ll be needing two.”

John looked at her. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”

“Oh there’s all sorts around here, love. And since The Fall, well, who knows what sort of situations people are in these days.”

“What do you think?” Sherlock pivoted on a heel and asked John.

“Very nice.” John glanced around the space again. “I think this could work out very well indeed.”

Sherlock caught Mrs. Hudson’s eye and nodded.

“Oh wonderful! I’ll get the paperwork!”

* * *

 

The next few days were hectic as Sherlock and John moved from John’s flat across London to the cozy, roomy flat on Baker Street. Fortunately John didn’t have a whole lot of items, just the stack of boxes mainly, and Sherlock had nothing save for the duffel bag’s worth of things he’d acquired since John bought him.

“I promise,” John said to Sherlock while he was on hold with his current landlord—as difficult as Mrs. Hudson was sweet—“as soon as we move in, we’re going to the shops so you can get more things. A coat. A phone. Whatever else you need.” John vaguely wondered how on earth he and Sherlock were going to afford this place. He'd ask later. Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock and seemed perfectly excited renting to him, so obviously she knew he'd be good for the money. His half anyway. John knew he was going to have to get a job. He'd wanted to do that anyway. Maybe with the new flat, there would be new opportunities to search.

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock had said with a smug little smile. He was nestled on an armchair, John's computer in his lap, typing. "I have a case on the site anyway, so I'm momentarily preoccupied. A string of jewel heists." _clack, clack, click,_ "Not the most unique of cases, I admit, but it's better than waiting for my brain to drip out my ears from sheer dullness."

* * *

 

John collapsed on the couch in the new flat a few days later, exhausted and relieved now that the move was over and done with. He sighed in contentment, so glad to not have to deal with the selling of some of the furniture and the fees and his bloody landlord and the navigating London during rush hour—that particularly had been hell. Through it all, Sherlock had been patient and actually sort of listening to his doctor's orders, nibbling at food and healing. A small box had arrived at Baker Street only one day after they moved in containing a soft leather charcoal collar and leash which Sherlock made a face at before scooping them up and carrying them off to his room. Good. Now John didn't have to worry about Sherlock getting nabbed off the street.

It was nice, John mused. His old flat had been so dank and dingy and the past few days with Sherlock had been wonderfully different. Annoying at times‒Sherlock could be caustic and rude and insulting, but even that was welcome in its own way. It was refreshing and John was just pleased Sherlock felt comfortable enough around him to know that it was alright if he was snippy or impatient. He was learning that John wouldn't hurt him and honestly, it also felt good to be wanted. Things clicked amazingly well between them and they settled in together like they had known each other since primary school. When John got off the plane six weeks ago, he'd had no idea what he was going to do. Since Sherlock though, his depression was lifting in a way that had nothing to do with his visits with Ella.

John watched the detective rooting through the kitchen cabinets one morning, his bare feet up on tiptoe as he reached to the top shelf.

“What are you looking for?” John called.

“Just taking inventory.” Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by the inside of the cabinet. “Mrs. Hudson said there were some items left by the former tenants…”

“Mm.” John got up, wincing. He was sore from going up and down the narrow stairs a thousand times moving the boxes and cleaning out some of the leftover trash, and his shoulder was aching. He walked into the kitchen. “Did you eat today?” He asked, unable to remember seeing the man consume a real sit-down hot meal since breakfast the morning he had called Mrs. Hudson. Even that had been sparse. The fast move across town had distracted him, and he only remembered Sherlock picking at mince pies or leftover takeaway now and then.

“I’ve eaten.” Sherlock said. He pulled a few multicolored drinking glasses down from the shelf, muttering to himself about whether or not they’d be useful.

“Real food?” John pressed. “Because I think the last time I saw you eat anything was two days ago. I was eating the last of the lo mein cold and you ate a single chicken wonton.”

Sherlock grinned. “I didn’t realize you were monitoring my habits of food consumption so readily, doctor.” He closed the top cabinet and got on the floor on his knees, wincing as his ribs moved. He opened the big cabinet under the sink and proceeded to stick his upper body inside, looking around some more.

John continued. “When you’re injured and your body needs to heal, yes I will. It’s that pesky doctor in me that just won’t let up.”

“It’s all just transport.” Sherlock said, shooting his hand out behind and gesturing vaguely over his body. He grunted and extracted himself from the cabinet with an old waffle iron. He pointed to his head. “ _This_ is the only thing that matters.”

“And one wonton isn’t going to fuel that big smart brain for very long.” John countered.

Sherlock paused in surprise, looking up at John almost shyly.

“Yes, you’re smart Sherlock. Very smart.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Sherlock’s voice was small and sincere and he put the waffle iron on the table.

“Now do something else smart and let me check your head.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock looked up at him in alarm.

“Remember how you tripped over a lawn gnome a while ago and fell down some stairs?” John tried to keep a straight face, but there was something about the image of Sherlock tripping over a gnome, long limbs flailing, that made his mouth smile of its own accord.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Yes, I am. Now sit down and let me see.”

Sherlock huffed but obeyed, slumping onto a chair and crossing his arms, an adorable petulant frown on his face. John rolled his eyes as he grabbed his bag from the sitting room. “World’s only consulting six year old…”

“What?!” Sherlock yelled from the kitchen.

“Nothing.” John set his bag on the table and washed his hands before he zipped the bag open and put some gloves on before looking at the scabbing wound. “I can tell you’re taking care to avoid it in the shower. It’s healing nicely.”

“Yes, doctor, I can surprisingly take care of myself.” Sherlock said in a droll tone.

John took a deep breath, taking Sherlock’s snark in stride. “I don’t want you to think you _can’t_ eat.” John said. “I don’t want to seem like that. You can eat and do whatever you want whenever…” John trailed off. He'd said this before, but he wanted Sherlock to know it was fact. “I don’t want you to think I’m like Moran or those pricks at the auction house.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I know you’re not, John. I’ll eat something today.”

“Good. Let me see your ribs, yeah?”

Sherlock obliged and took off his shirt. The dark purple color was fading off his ribs, leaving behind a yellow-green tinge. The rest of Sherlock’s wounds were healing infection-free as well.

“Good.” John said again. “Have you been sleeping?”

“John!” Sherlock groaned.

“You need to sleep more.” John told him. “A few hours every couple days is not normal.”

Sherlock made a face.

“I can give you something to help you sleep, if that’s the problem.” John told him. When Sherlock didn’t respond, he tried a different tactic. “What if you get a better case on your website? You’ll be too tired to do it. I'll have to go out there on my own and then we'll really be in trouble.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, clearly having not considered this. He rose from the table, grabbed his discarded shirt, and started walking towards his bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep!”

“Wait—eat something first!” John ran to the fridge and opened it. There was some curried rice and a bag of apples. John grabbed an apple and threw it at Sherlock, who caught it with one hand and disappeared into his room, shutting the door behind.

* * *

 

John spent the rest of his day unpacking and tidying around the flat. He put the telly on at a low volume and began organizing and sorting through his things. He went out after an hour (he didn’t want to wake Sherlock after all with all the thumping and banging) to get some air and learn his way around this part of the city. The evening air was cool and crisp and hummed with London traffic. John took a deep breath, pleased. Today had felt normal. Like a day of fresh new starts that could have passed before The Fall ruined everything. John zipped up his jacket and started walking, glad that he didn’t need his cane. It was weird. Since Sherlock, he hadn't even needed it much and it felt good to walk around unhobbled.

The Jubilee line was closer to the flat than he'd originally thought, that was handy. John walked north towards Regent’s Park and turned east onto Marylebone. There was a chemist’s and a little food shop—both would be useful if he and Sherlock didn’t want to take the Tube all the way to Tesco. John walked past two armed soldiers chatting on the corner in front of several boarded up shops. One glanced at him and his eyes fell to his bare throat. John hurried on, disturbed at the stark reminder of The Republic’s conquering. He suspected these periods of forgetting and remembering were going to be plentiful in his future. Everyone’s future for that matter.

He came to the corner of Marylebone and Park Crescent and froze. There, on a raised platform just outside Regent’s Park, was a pillory. John blinked. It was a tall metal and concrete structure on a narrow dais, some ten feet off the ground. A waist-high iron-barred fence surrounded the ugly thing and a little spiral staircase led up to it. Thankfully, no one was imprisoned in it. A black metal shackle hung from a short thick chain, clearly meant to be fastened around someone’s neck to hold them in place. John felt ill. Sherlock and Lestrade had mentioned pillories, but seeing one up close like this, so close to his home, was unnerving. John walked around some more before hitting Tesco and going back to the flat with fresh food. Sherlock had said he would make an effort to eat, so John wanted there to be options.

Sherlock’s door was still closed when John returned. He made pasta and garlic bread for dinner, but when the smell didn’t pull Sherlock out of his room, John put the leftovers away and pulled out his phone to call Harry.

She was older than him, so she wouldn't be a slave. That was reassuring, at least. He dialed the last number he had for her and waited, shoulders and body tense as the phone chimed rhythmically. Three rings, then‒

_"Hello?"_ Harry's voice.

"Harry? It's John."

_"John!"_ She sounded more surprised than anything. _"Wha‒where are you?"_

"London." He said. He dug his toe into the carpet. "I got back a few weeks ago."

_"Just calling now? Nice."_

Ah yes, here was her tone, her bitchy pouty tone. The familiarity of it didn't make it any more welcome.

"I've been busy." He said. That was true at least.

_"Why'd they send you back?"_

"I was shot."

A beat of silence. John continued. "How are you faring through The Fall?"

She snorted. _"Shit hit the fan right after it happened‒must have been nice not to be here. I lost my job but got another one."_

"Was that because of The Fall or your drinking?" John snipped. He closed his eyes, immediately regretting it.

_"Get off your damn high horse. You have no idea what I've been through while you were off getting shot. I work with slaves now, isn't that nice?"_ Her tone was bitter.

_Yeah,_ John thought, _I bet they just love working with you too._

"At least you're employed." He said back. He wasn't sure whether to tell her about Sherlock. Maybe not.

The conversation continued in a similar vein as they talked about local goings-on and the weather. Harry finally said she had to go, and they hung up with no plans to communicate any time soon.

Overall, John supposed, it could have gone worse.

* * *

 

John was sitting at his laptop the next morning, stealing furtive glances at Sherlock’s still-closed door, then to the clock in the corner of his computer screen. The man had gone to his room almost eighteen hours ago and John was wondering if he should be worried. Though, if he remembered the fever correctly (and how could he forget that long night) Sherlock could _sleep_. He stood up and crept across the kitchen. Wincing, he gently turned the bedroom knob and poked his head in. Sherlock was still sound asleep on his side. A white sheet was pulled up to his waist and he had never bothered to put his shirt back on. His back was to John and the doctor grimaced at the mish-mash of thin scars crossing his pale shoulders. He imagined the auction house men beating Sherlock’s lithe body. Sherlock was strong in a wiry sort of way, but he wouldn’t be any match, strength-wise, against a group of trained soldiers. And Moran, whatever he had done… the fact that Sherlock wasn't talking about it said enough. John saw the discarded apple core on the bedside table and thought briefly of grabbing it, but he retreated and closed the door instead. He didn't want to wake him. He left the flat again to visit local surgeries in the hopes that one of them would offer him a job. A few seemed promising and he returned to the flat, satisfied with the results of his search.

He noted with a vague sigh of relief that the shower was running in the loo and Sherlock’s bedroom door was open. Good. He hadn’t died in his sleep. He came out moments later with a white towel wrapped around his waist and went to the coffee machine, pouring himself a cup and adding a sinful amount of sugar before drinking it, his eyes closed in enjoyment.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” John said as Sherlock glanced into the sitting room. “Sleep well?”

“Uh-huh.” Sherlock went back to his room and John smirked. Not a morning person, then. He came out ten minutes later, dressed in the other shirt he had bought that day at the shops. John watched Sherlock put on his shoes and realized he hated that Sherlock was still going without. His next pension check would probably be coming pretty soon though, then he could send Sherlock to get more clothes or whatever he needed…

“Don’t pity me, John.” Sherlock said forcefully. “There’s nothing to be pitied.”

“What? I wasn’t.”

Sherlock stood up and raised a brow at him. “Yes, you were.” He swept out of the flat, only to return half an hour later with a stormy look on his face. He stomped into his room, slamming the door behind. John, unpacking a box in the sitting room, wondered why his flatmate had just thrown a nonverbal temper tantrum. He sighed and wiped dusty hands on his trousers before creeping up to Sherlock’s door. He knocked with a knuckle.

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Fine, John.” Sherlock’s voice was a moan of annoyance.

“Did something happen?” John pressed.

There was a loud _bang_ on the other side of the door. It sounded like Sherlock may have thrown a shoe at it. John scowled and opened the door. Sherlock was huddled on the bed and he lifted his head as John entered. He glanced down—yup, it had been a shoe. And beside that on the floor was the new collar.

“Is everything alright?” John pressed.

“Of course everything’s alright, why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock said quickly.

John shrugged. “You came in here like a gale, nearly took the door off its hinges.”

“Other people’s idiocy does that sometimes.” Sherlock said. “Side effect of my superior intellect.”

John forced himself to not roll his eyes. “Where were you that you had to deal with other people's idiocy?” He asked.

“I’m not a _child_ that needs to answer to every adult I see—” Sherlock sneered, rising to his feet.

“Yeah, okay.” John backed out of the room, not wanting to deal with this now.

Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “—Despite what those idiots in the Republic and those idiots at the bank like to think. They’re denying me— _me!—_ access to my own accounts!” Sherlock yelled. He roared in frustration and threw himself back on the bed, his lips pursed in a spectacular pout and his eyes trained at the ceiling.

“The bank wouldn’t let you get your money?” John ventured. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved that Sherlock had some sort of savings or annoyed that he hadn't mentioned a whisper of it until now. Mostly he was relieved.

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“What do you need so you can access your accounts? ID?”

Sherlock mumbled something and made a face.

“What?” John said.

“Only _my master_ can access my accounts now.” Sherlock said blankly. “It’s humiliating.” He added.

“So you’re saying only _I_ can get to your accounts?” John said.

Sherlock blinked languidly.

John rubbed his forehead. “Why don’t we go to the bank and talk to someone there and see about getting you your money?”

Another long blink. “If you want.” He mumbled.

“Do _you_ want to?” John asked, getting annoyed again.

Sherlock rolled off the bed again and gave John a long-suffering look. He sighed and grabbed his shoe off the floor.

“That’s a ‘yes’ then, I guess.” John murmured. “Do you want to borrow something heavier than your shirts to stay warm? A jumper?”

Sherlock tied his shoes and grabbed the collar and looked at John like he had just proclaimed he could pull a live lobster from his own arse.

“No, John.” He said, trying to suppress a laugh. “I’d rather throw myself from a rooftop than go anywhere _near_ your jumpers.”

* * *

 

Two hours later, an irritated Sherlock and John were pacing back through the cool cloudy day to the Tube stop. They had flat-out refused to allow Sherlock to keep track of his own money since he was now officially a slave, but had grudgingly allowed John to co-sign on the account, thereby allowing Sherlock _and_ John access to the finances. Sherlock now had credit cards and cash nestled in his pocket.

“I don’t want it.” John told him. “I’m not going to use your money or even monitor your spending. I'm attached to this in name only and I have no interest in your accounts.” This seemed to appease the detective somewhat. They turned the corner and out of nowhere, a man in a suit leaped on Sherlock from behind and wrapped his hand over the detective’s mouth.

John gaped, startled for a second before his soldier instincts kicked on and he threw himself on the assailant as Sherlock did some kind of martial arts move to writhe out of his grip, but it was clear his attacker was skilled. John got two solid punches to the man’s stomach in before another thug yanked John off Sherlock’s attacker. “Get off!” John yelled. He drove an elbow into the man’s ribs, drawing a satisfying _oof._ A big black car pulled up to the curb and John started attacking the thug harder, kicking and yelling. Why was no one coming to their aid? A blindfold was wrenched over his head. “Sherlock!” John yelled again as everything went dark. The thug grunted and something soft was shoved between his teeth and tied around his head. The car door opened, there was a rustling noise, and then the guy was shoving John into the car. He growled and splayed his limbs, making it as difficult as possible for him to be controlled. The man swore, then more hands landed, physically bending his arms and legs and forcing him into the vehicle. The smell of clean leather and a hint of cologne met John’s nose, and he snarled and writhed like a wild thing as the car door was closed and the vehicle started moving. His hands were grabbed and forced painfully behind his back before being cuffed together.

“John.” Sherlock’s deep voice cut through his consciousness.

John stilled, startled at how calm Sherlock sounded. “Sherlock?” He said. Though it came out sounding like more like “Herlof?”

“Quiet down before you hurt yourself.” Sherlock said, placid as ever.

John relaxed somewhat, and the heavy hands eased off of him.

“Whaf’s hoing on?” John growled. “Fhere’re we?”

“I think I know.” Sherlock said grimly. There was a beat and John’s gag was removed.

“What the hell!? Where are we going?” John hissed. His turned his head, trying to take in the new sounds and sensations of the vehicle.

“They’re taking us to talk to the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.”

 


	7. Brother Mine

**This chapter is shorter than I thought. My apologies for the wonky chapter lengths.  
**

* * *

 

“Most dangerous—? What are you going on about? Get this blindfold off me!” John commanded to no one in particular.

“They won’t.” Sherlock said. “I still have mine on.” Sherlock sounded almost bored and when he didn’t speak anymore, John took a deep breath and assessed the situation. They had been driving for about ten minutes. He couldn’t tell how many people were in the car—at least four, plus a driver. John tried to keep track of the ways the car was turning, but that proved to be hopeless. It felt like they were driving in circles. John sat upright and tense for the entire trip, and when the car came to a stop, the thugs opened the door and started tugging John out with them.

“Stoppit!” He snapped. “Get off me!”

“Stop struggling.” Sherlock said. John did, though he didn’t know why. He didn’t even know Sherlock—he had no idea where these people were leading them. It occurred to him that he might be a fool, though he kept walking. The hands eased off until there was just one on his shoulder, guiding him along a path. Gravel crunched underfoot and the sounds of the city had diminished, replaced by silence, wind and the occasional cry of a bird. A door opened and they were ushered into a cool room, large too, from the sounds of the echoes. They were led down hallways and through more rooms before finally coming to stop in what sounded like a smaller, carpeted room. John could hear and smell a fire burning. The blindfold was pulled off his head and he glanced around. It was spacious and well-furnished with a big, ornate desk facing the window and a small sofa on the opposite wall. An umbrella was leaned up against the sofa. A fire crackled in the hearth and John turned, aiming a glare at the big thugs as they left the room. They watched John warily, one sported a black eye and the other limping, and John couldn’t help but hide a little grin. Sherlock was standing peacefully beside him, blindfold-less and uncuffed, a scowl on his face.

“How come you’re not cuffed?” John said.

“Because he didn’t struggle like you did, Doctor Watson.” John turned at the new voice. A man in a dapper silver-grey three piece suit strode into the room, his eyes on a golden pocket watch. He slid it into the folds of his suit jacket and watched both men. John looked at his throat. No collar. He watched John with a thin smile. He had that same calculating gleam as Sherlock did. It was unnerving.

“Sherlock.” The man said. He sounded almost condescending, but there was a concerned light in his eyes as he glanced over the man, his sharp gaze softening and lingering on the dark collar and the head wound Sherlock got from his fall down the steps.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock said.

“It’s been ages.” Mycroft said. He reached up, concerned, to touch Sherlock’s head but the detective jerked out of reach.

“Who are you?” John demanded. "And can I get these handcuffs off?"

“My apologies.” Mycroft turned to John. “My name is Mycroft Holmes." He produced a key and held it out to Sherlock. He yanked it out of his hand.

“Holmes?” John repeated the last name and glanced at Sherlock. The detective turned to John, gently twisting his wrist and slipping the key in the cuff. They unsnapped and Sherlock flung them on the floor.

“Only now coming to call?” Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft. “You might have actually been useful about three years ago.”

“Sherlock, dear, I couldn’t find you. After The Fall…”

“Yes, after the world went to shit and you apparently moved to a mansion somewhere near Midhurst.” Sherlock glanced him over. “Typical. You run for safety—who else is stashed here? Anyone of significance?” Sherlock barreled on, not waiting for a reply. “Seems the change of scenery’s been good for the diet, at least.”

Mycroft smirked.

“How do you know we’re near Midhurst?” John asked.

“Stop speaking, John. You’re making my head hurt.” Sherlock snipped.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft said in scolding tone, “that’s no way to speak to your _master_.” His eyes dropped pointedly to Sherlock’s collar.

“What the hell do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock growled.

“I haven’t heard from you, haven’t spoken to you in years. I wanted to see how you were.”

“How I was? The Fall took away my business, my home, and my freedom. I was kidnapped and escaped and bought and sold and now I essentially have to start from scratch in rebuilding my work.”

“Not totally from scratch.” Mycroft turned his laser gaze onto John. “You have the good doctor with you now.”

“Yeah, sorry…” John said, “how did you know my name?”

“The good doctor who allowed you access to your finances.” Mycroft continued, “who, from what I hear, fought very valiantly if not futilely against your capture today.”

“John is…” Sherlock said, considering, “a bit less stupid than other people.”

“Cheers.” John muttered.

“Less cruel too, I imagine.” Mycroft said. “How gracious of him, allowing a slave free access to cash. That’s how we found you, you know.”

“I gathered.” Sherlock glowered at Mycroft and John spoke.

“Of course he has access to his funds. I think the real question is: how the hell do _you_ know?"

"Because he is ‒ _was_ ‒the government." Sherlock said.

Mycroft gave a prim smile. “Most masters would prefer to just absorb their slaves' finances into their own. Why didn't you?” His tone was one of curiosity and suspicion.

John frowned. "That's not something I'm really interested in. His affairs are his own.”

“Where did you find him?” Mycroft asked.

“North London.” John said.

“Were they holding an auction?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted, “Bugger off and leave me alone. As usual, it was a pleasure laying eyes on your shining face.” Sherlock turned to exit the room.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called, “before you throw a tantrum and leave, I thought you’d like to know that I have your things.”

“My _things_?” Sherlock said, suspicious.

“Yes, your… _items_." He made a face one would make when discussing petrified dog poop. "I got them from your flat before they could be sold.”

“Everything?” Sherlock said, his voice brighter.

“I believe so.” Mycroft sounded bored, and he glanced again at his pocket watch. “Everything’s in boxes. I’ll post them to you.”

“Fine.” Sherlock’s voice was back to its irritated snarl. He left the room and slammed the door behind with a _bang._

“I haven’t heard from him in three years.” Mycroft said quietly in the ensuing silence. He looked down and John saw his cool mask slide away. It was remarkable how it did, really, stiff lines revealing careworn wrinkles around his eyes and a softness in his lips and forehead that he'd blocked from his brother. He _had_ worried. He'd probably spent countless sleepless nights wondering about his baby brother as the world burned and fell. John appreciated it, but he wasn't feeling too compassionate at the moment, not when his wrists were still sore from the cuffs. Mycroft sighed. “I didn’t even know if he was alive until today when I saw his accounts get reactivated.”

“You’re certainly not the only one who hasn’t been able to contact a loved one lately.” John said, feeling testy. He remembered his conversation with Harry and was again thankful that she was safe, despite how the conversation had gone.

“Yes, of course. Though I doubt Sherlock would classify me as a ‘loved one.’ I feared he was in the mines. God only knows what happened to him while he was enslaved.”

"He said the man's name was Moran."'

Mycroft's face greyed and turned his pale eyes to John.

"How bad is Moran?" John asked.

"Moran's employer and Sherlock did, ah, not get along." Mycroft went and sat behind the desk. He reached for a glass bottle of amber liquid, pouring himself a small measure.

John thought of all Sherlock's bruises and marks and wondered if he had endured anything more sinister than punches and kicks. The mere thought made his stomach turn.

“Tell me, Doctor Watson, do you know if Sherlock has been to the mines?”

“No.” John said. “I don’t know much about what happened while he was a slave. I’ve only just returned to London myself, I don’t really know how _anyone’s_ having a time of it. When I bought… _met_ him, I did it with the intention of giving him the closest thing to freedom he could get.”

Mycroft looked mildly impressed. “You’re very fair-minded, John.”

“Yeah well, I’m not interested in becoming a slave owner.”

Mycroft smiled. “But you are. A very kind slave owner whom, I can see from my brother's website, is also a detective?”

John flexed his left hand.

"Sherlock gets to solve cases, and all the paperwork leads to you, a free person. It works out very neatly for each of you."

"So?" John said, feeling defensive.

"Though I certainly appreciate the altruistic nature of your partnership‒for my brother's sake, I hope you realize that it is entirely illegal."

"We know. There's a copper who's in on it, but he knows Sherlock. He won't say anything."

"Ah yes. Lestrade. We've been in touch."

"Why did you bother to kidnap us if you knew everything?" John couldn't keep the growl out of his voice.

"Because I wanted to speak to you, John. What's left of the CCTV only goes so far."

"You've been spying with the bloody street cameras?"

“I’d like you,” Mycroft began, fully ignoring John, “to keep me updated on my brother.”

“Updated?”

“Now that I know he’s alive, I’d like to attempt to keep touch.”

“You obviously know how to get a hold of us—literally—whenever you want.” John said. “Why do you need me?”

Mycroft smirked. “You saw how he reacted to being in my presence for more than three minutes. Do you think he’d take kindly to my just popping in to Baker Street?”

Part of John, the part still furious about the abduction, wanted to tell Mycroft Holmes to go fuck himself. Another part, the part that was a sibling, completely understood Mycroft’s concern and his interest in Sherlock’s well-being, especially now knowing that Moran and 'his employer' were apparently worse than average and had a history with Sherlock before they'd even owned him.

“I’ll keep in touch, then.” Mycroft said, reading John’s answer on his face.

“As long as there’s no midday abduction next time, fine.” John turned and headed for the door.

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft’s voice was so low John wondered if he had imagined it. "Oh, and John?"

He paused, sort of hating that he did.

"Be careful. You two are playing with fire, knowingly running an illegal business. Any consequences you should suffer if someone of significance were to find out would be…unpleasant."

John nodded in acknowledgment and left the room.

* * *

**_tbc..._ **


	8. Another Case

"I don't know anything else!" Raz told his captors. Two men were before him. One was short with an Irish touch to his voice, dark hair and even darker eyes. He was doing most of the questioning. The other, tall, ginger, and tattooed on the arm with a large feral tiger, was doing most of the 'interrogating' as they called it. Some blood dripped into Raz's eye and three of his fingers were broken, jagged and bent at weird angles. He wouldn't be creating any new exhibitions for a while. The shorter one‒Jim, the other man had called him‒crouched down beside Raz, making him startle where he was tied in the chair. "All I know, is that Sherlock Holmes was sent to an auction house in north London."

"Is he still there?" Moriarty asked.

"I don't know!" Raz spat frantically. Jim lifted his hand to scratch his neck and the tied teen jolted his chair, trying to cower in on himself. "He was brought to the auction house, that's for sure. There's rumors on the streets that maybe he was bought, but they're just whispers. No one has concrete proof. There's a lot of tall, curly haired blokes wandering 'round and if he's really owned by a new master, then who knows what he even looks like anymore."

Raz was rambling, just a bit, but he'd learned quickly from these men that if he was talking, there was less chance they would be hitting him. They had just taken him off the street. The tall guy grabbed him, claiming to passersby that he was a runaway slave. Raz had put up a fight, but no one helped. No one dared interfere and he'd been brought here‒wherever 'here' was‒to this damp little basement. He thought he could hear other people shouting, screaming through the walls, but he wasn't sure. Sherlock was a decent bloke, but Raz would sell him out in a heartbeat if it meant he'd get released. As it was,

"that's all I know, I swear." He panted.

Jim glanced up at his ginger partner and the taller man started untying his hands.

"If I have more questions, Raz, you'll be the first person I call." Jim told him. A blindfold was pulled over the youth's eyes, throwing everything into darkness.

* * *

 

John and Sherlock settled into relatively normal life. As normal as life could be under a foreign dictatorship who insisted on a dystopian world of slavery. The streets weren’t as safe anymore; John always made sure the flat was locked tight. News of riots scattered from Inverness to Brighton to Cork and beyond‒Madrid, Houston, Brisbane, Osaka and countless other ravaged cities dominated the independent blogs and news sites and radio shows people had cobbled together. The Republic-run newspapers were mostly useless. The big names were gone, and _The Daily Republic_ (the official news resource) was all propaganda and fluff. Crimes were punished harshly under the new regime, either in the forms of fees or corporal sentences often taking place right in public. In addition to Regent’s Park, Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square had pillories and posts planted too. Sometimes the punishments were even televised. John never watched them. The whole business made him sick. Sherlock didn’t watch either. Sherlock didn’t really watch telly at all.

After the trip to the bank and abduction, Sherlock spent several hours on John’s laptop, and a week or so later The Boxes started arriving. Big boxes, small boxes, cardboard boxes, wooden boxes, boxes posted from Mycroft and boxes from around the world, boxes that were long and narrow, white, brown, black—it was like the flat had become a shelter for homeless boxes. John raised a brow when Sherlock started pulling expensive-looking science equipment out of the cardboard and bubble wrap. A set of test tubes. A microscope. A wooden box that rattled and when opened, turned out to be filled with itty bitty diamonds and emeralds.

"Seriously?" John said.

"For my jewel heist case." Sherlock said, putting them and a gem cutting tool aside for later. Detritus items like gloves and Petri dishes and the like came out of another box, and that was only half. The rest of the tons of boxes were filled with clothes. Ye Gods—expensive designer shirts and trousers and suits and whatnot and also a beautiful long Belstaff wool coat that John admitted did good things for the man. He thought back to the couple shirts and trousers Sherlock had worn at his flat. He must have hated them though he hadn't complained. Sherlock let out a triumphant cry and pulled a brand new black iPhone out of one box. He powered it on and grabbed the charge cord.

“Part time job as a mad scientist?” John asked, watching Sherlock from his armchair as he plugged the phone in and then gently extracted yet another giant beaker from some packing peanuts. Sherlock didn’t respond. “Need help unpacking?”

“No.” Sherlock smiled as he set a bunch of items up on the kitchen table. John glanced around the flat, noting how similar it looked to Christmas morning in a house full of Einstein's children. Empty boxes were tossed haphazardly and packing paper and Styrofoam were _everywhere_. John mentally _tutted_ at the mess but then shrugged and went back to reading the paper.

He got used to the sights and sounds of Sherlock’s experimenting over the next few days. There were some funny smells. A few explosions. One very small fire in the microwave. A flood in the oven. Nothing unbearable though. John decided he was totally fine with Sherlock’s experimenting until one unassuming Thursday when he opened the fridge and saw a pair of severed hands neatly clasped together beside the milk.

John slammed the fridge closed. “Sherlock!”

“What!” Sherlock yelled from his room.

“What the hell is in the fridge?!”

“Food, I imagine.” Came Sherlock’s sardonic reply.

“Whose hands are these?!”

“John Doe’s.”

John grit his teeth. “Why are they in our fridge?”

“I put them there.”

John threw his hands in the air in a silent bid for strength. “Get rid of them!” He yelled. There was a noise of thumping, then the padding sound of Sherlock’s bare feet on the wooden floors before he appeared in the doorway, dressed in PJ bottoms and a blue dressing gown.

“Not yet.” Sherlock said.

“Why on earth do you need a pair of severed hands?” John asked.

Sherlock shifted, looking slightly self-conscious. “I’m measuring the rate of flesh decay. Both hands were injected with poison, then one hand was cauterized with a laser. The other was surgically removed. I’m seeing which one rots faster.”

John couldn’t keep the grimace of disgust off his face. “In our _refrigerator_? Next to the food? Sherlock, can’t you—”

“No.”

“Do not keep these in the fridge.” John growled. “It’s disgusting. They’re _leaking_ for God’s sake.”

Sherlock scowled and looked down and John softened, rubbing a palm over his face.

“Is this going to be a regular thing?” John asked. “Body parts in the fridge?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’d like it to be.” He straightened, waiting for John to yell some more about how disgusting his experiments were and how he was forbidden from ever conducting them again on pain of horrendous punishment. That's what would normally happen when an owner was upset with a slave, right? Moran never ever would have allowed it. Sherlock wasn't even allowed in the kitchen. But then…John was different.

“What about…” John looked into the fridge again. “What if you use that shelf?” He pointed to a shelf mostly bereft of food. “Keep body parts here, and _covered_.” Sherlock’s mouth slid into a grin as John looked inside the fridge. This was interesting. He was actually trying to compromise. Oh yes, John was most definitely a good one.

“Fine.” Sherlock said absently. His phone chirped and he went into the sitting room, reading the text. His eyes lit up and he let out a small gasp before sending a few words back and slipping it into his pocket.

“Another _case_ , John!” He leaped up with a noise of excitement. “A murder! Oh what would we do without incompetent police officers?!” Sherlock giggled and went back to his room.

"Do I come with you on police cases too?" John called.

"Yes. It would do to keep up appearances but you don't need to do the heavy lifting here, _detective_." John thought he heard Sherlock laugh at the ridiculous notion and he took the jab in stride. He laced his shoes and stood as the real detective strolled back into the room.

“Don’t forget your leash and collar.” He said sweetly, more to irritate Sherlock than anything. Sherlock’s face darkened for a moment, but he reached over to the knife he had jammed in the mantle where his charcoal leash and collar hung dangling over the fireplace. He stuffed them into his pocket.

* * *

 

The cab dropped them off in front of a huge, ornate flat complex. John whistled as he stepped out of the taxi.

“Whoever lives here seems to be doing alright for themselves.” He said, looking up at the building.

“Unless he or she is the victim.” Sherlock got out behind him and started striding up the steps, not giving John a second glance. John pulled out his wallet and sighed, paying the waiting cabbie.

They took the lift to the fifth floor and strode down the taupe-toned hall towards the crime scene. It was easy to spot—the police and caution tape were a dead giveaway.

“Ah.” A pretty, mocha skinned woman with curly dark hair glanced over Sherlock as he strode towards the scene. “Boss said you were back. We weren’t sure if you’d show—or if you’d be in the pillory again.”

John blinked. _He was in the pillory once?_

“Donovan.” Sherlock put on a fake smile. “So… _lovely_ to see you again.”

“Your master know you’re here?” She said. “Or does he let his pup off the leash?” Her eyes flicked down to his bare neck and Sherlock turned the collar of his coat up to hide it.

“His master doesn’t make him _wear_ a leash.” John said coldly. “And he’s not a ‘pup.’”

Donovan looked impressed. “And who are you?” She said to John. "The master?"

“And colleague.” Sherlock sniffed. “ _Doctor_ John Watson.”

“And he’s letting his slave work crime scenes?” She asked. She turned to John. “He really does need to be wearing the collar, you know—”

“‒what do you know of it, Sally?” Sherlock hissed, “If you weren’t an officer, you’d be in the same position I am—don’t presume to know anything about what slavery is like.”

She looked genuinely surprised at Sherlock’s venomous tone. “Hey—I didn’t mean—”

“Sherlock, why don’t we find Lestrade?” John interrupted.

“He’s in there.” Sally nodded to the open door and stepped aside. Sherlock glared at her for a moment and swept into the flat.

John glanced at the stainless steel appliances, wood cabinets and granite countertops. Given its location and the security downstairs, it was definitely an expensive flat. Lestrade was sitting at the kitchen table with a crying young dark-haired woman who was delicately dabbing her face with a handkerchief.

“Lestrade, where’s the body?” Sherlock demanded. The girl started sobbing harder and Lestrade gave him a weary look.

“Down the hall.” He said. Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked for the hall, a mildly disconcerting smile on his face. “Watch out for Anderson!” Lestrade called at his retreating back, “—wait, Sherlock!”

The detective paused, giving Lestrade a long-suffering glare. The officer tapped his own neck, silently telling Sherlock to put the collar on. Sherlock growled and yanked the strip of leather from his pocket, buckling it on.

They went up a short flight of steps and turned into the hallway. John saw the body of a young woman lying on the hardwood floor just outside a bedroom door. Her eyes were closed and her shining blonde hair was spilled over the floor. She would have looked peaceful if it wasn’t for the two red puncture marks on her throat. Some plastic yellow evidence markers were littered around her and Anderson came out of the bedroom.

“Oh hell.” He said, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.

“I know, I know. You’re filled with exaltation at the sight of me.”

“Revulsion is more like it.” Anderson muttered. “Does Lestrade know you’re here?”

“Who do you think invited me?” Sherlock said smugly. “He said to tell you to get the hell out of my way and let me do your job for you as usual.”

Lestrade came up the steps at that moment and instantly perked at the tension in the hall.

"Sherlock." He said, his voice pitched lower in warning. Anderson and Sherlock got on as well as oil and water at the best of times and the DI wanted to end any tiffs before they began. “Anderson," he said, "give Sherlock a couple minutes with the body.”

“Of course.” Anderson ducked out of the way and gave Sherlock a fake smile. The detective returned a grin just as sugary.

“I want this case solved.” Lestrade said to both of them. “Stay out of each other’s way as much as you can. Any problems," he glanced at both of them. "Come to me.”

“As you wish, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock said.

John hid a smirk and Sherlock crouched over the body, slipping some gloves on. John watched as he looked intently over the figure and then gently touched the skin around the puncture marks on her neck. He sniffed them and John raised a brow.

“This is Julia Roylott.” Lestrade told them.

“Vampire get to her?” John said.

“She died of a snakebite.” Sherlock said. “Helen Roylott, in the kitchen, is Julia’s sister.”

“How do you know that?” John interrupted.

“The handkerchief Helen was using.” Sherlock said. “It was embroidered with the letters ‘HR’ and ‘JR.’ Initials for both women on the same handkerchief? Obviously part of a matching set—the women were close—closer than friends. Sisters, then. And if the handkerchief wasn’t obvious enough for you then the shapes of their hands are, look.”

Sherlock gestured to the woman’s delicate left hand. “Same hands. Same genes. Sisters.”

“Fantastic.” John said.

Sherlock looked surprised. “You think so?”

“Definitely.”

“And look here.” Sherlock looked pleased as he picked a strand of long wavy dark hair off the body. “This isn’t her hair, she’s a blonde. Her sister’s isn’t this dark or long. Anderson?”

“We don’t even need you.” Anderson wandered back into the hall. “We knew it was a snake bite.”

“But do you know what species?” Sherlock asked pleasantly.

“Well, no…”

“And oh look—you’ve missed what could be a vital piece of _evidence_.” Sherlock said, dangling the strand of hair. Anderson got an evidence bag and Sherlock slipped the hair inside.

“Did you check for fingerprints on the body?” Sherlock spoke as if he was talking to a stupid child.

“Of course. They’re running.” Anderson waved his handheld fingerprint scanner in Sherlock’s face.

“How nice—you _do_ know how to do your job.”

“I was just talking to Helen—” Lestrade began.

“Is she still in the kitchen?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes—”

Sherlock stood and swept out of the hall, leaving John standing there with the officers.

“He always like that?” John asked.

“Yep.” Lestrade said.

“He has to be a nightmare to live with.” Anderson mused.

“Actually…” John thought about it, how the body parts, boxes, and explosions had actually been entertaining more than annoying. “No, it hasn’t been too bad.”

* * *

 

“Tell me everything.” Sherlock slid into the chair across from Helen Roylott, clasping his hands and waiting. She looked up at him with a tearstained face and sniffled. “Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. You discovered your sister’s body?”

“Yes. Last night. I heard her scream and by the time I got out into the hallway, she was on the floor like she is now.”

“Did she scream anything in particular? Words? Names?”

“I heard her say—at least I _think_ I heard her correctly—I think she said something about a ‘striped band.’”

“A striped band?” Sherlock repeated.

Helen nodded.

“Interesting.” Sherlock murmured.

“Why is it interesting? I already told all this to the police…”

“Oh forget them, they’re idiots. Do you know what Julia might have meant by this?”

“No.” Helen started crying again but Sherlock spoke quickly to cut off her tears. “Is this her flat?”

“No, it’s our father’s.” She said. “Step-father, actually.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the way her hands tightened on her handkerchief and she held herself a little straighter when she spoke of him. Tense. Anxious. “Julia lived here and I was visiting this weekend from Cambridge.”

“Does anyone else live here?” Sherlock pressed.

“Alex does.”

“Who’s that?”

“She’s our step-father’s slave.”

At that moment, the front door banged open and a tall, broad-shouldered man stormed into the room. He was wearing a dark suit and he had a black leash clutched in his fist. Getting dragged along at the end of the leash was a lithe girl with long wavy dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses wearing a deep maroon shirt with the abbreviation UMASS stamped on in white lettering. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. She was grabbing at the leash fastened to her red collar, yanking back, trying to give herself some slack.

“What is the meaning of this? Who are you people?” The man growled. He turned to the girl on the leash. “Alex, do you know them?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He strode into the room and flipped open his ID. Sherlock saw John follow quietly on the officer's heels and get out of his way. “Doctor Paul Roylott?” Lestrade said.

“Yes. This is my flat. Helen,” he caught sight of his step-daughter, “what’s going on?”

“Julia’s dead.” She said to him. “Last night.”

Doctor Roylott was quiet for a moment, then he turned to Lestrade. “What happened?” He dropped the leash and the slave girl, Alex, rubbed her throat and scowled at his back.

“Alex?” Sherlock slid up to her and spoke in a kind voice. “Do you mind if I speak to you in the other room?”

Alex opened her mouth to speak, but Doctor Roylott turned on them, giving him a sneer. “Who the hell are you?" He growled, glancing over the coat and collar. John raised his brows in surprise.

Sherlock lifted his chin. "Sherlock Holmes." He said in a cold voice. Roylott's eyes narrowed and John jumped in.

“Uh, so sorry, Doctor.” John said. He introduced himself. “Do you mind if he speaks to your slave in the other room? He’s—we’re—with the police.”

Roylott, mildly appeased now that he knew John was a fellow doctor, relented.

“Elly,” Alex went to Helen, “what’s going on? What happened to Julia?”

_American accent_ , Sherlock noted.

“We’re not sure yet.” Helen assured her, “that’s why the Yard is here.” She nodded at Sherlock and Alex followed him and John into the empty lounge. Alex sat on the pale green sofa and Sherlock sat on the low table directly across from her. John sat on the other small sofa, not wanting to crowd her. Sherlock glanced at the pink marks on her throat left by the collar and pursed his lips.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” He told her. His voice was quiet and soothing and had none of the snippiness that had been directed at Anderson.

“Alex Bailey.” She said. She kept her eyes down, looking at her hands squirming in her lap.

“I’m a slave too.” He said. She raised her head, relaxing a little.

“Oh.” Her eyes flicked down to his thin collar, partially hidden under the scarf.

“Doctor Watson is my owner.”

“Flatmate!” John nearly yelled.

“Give it a rest, John.” Sherlock said smoothly. Alex looked away from John and back to her hands.

“You can look him in the eye, it’s okay. He won’t hurt you and neither will I.”

“Are you cops?” She ventured.

“I’m a Consulting Detective. John, as you heard, is a GP.”

“Like Mr. Roylott.” Alex said.

“How long have you been Dr. Roylott’s slave?” Sherlock asked.

“About a year and a half now.” She said, her voice weary.

“Are you related?” John asked.

“No. I was studying abroad in London when The Fall happened.” She said. “He bought me as a sort of maid for Julia.”

John’s eyes widened. “Do you have family in America?!”

“I’m from Massachusetts.” She said sadly. “I…haven’t heard from anyone. The Republic took over the US too, and Dr. Roylott doesn’t like me trying to contact any of my family.” She glanced between John and Sherlock. “I _have_ tried though, naturally.”

“Were you successful?” John asked.

“I sent an email, but…” she licked her lips, “Doctor Roylott is very…unwilling to let me contact them. He found out about the email and he was," she paused, "unhappy.”

“So your family has no idea where you are.” John finished.

“No. I don’t know if they’re alive, or if they know I’m alive. I doubt the school could have told them anything.” She looked up at Sherlock. “Things were pretty crazy right after The Fall.”

“Yes, they were.” They shared a silent moment of understanding during which John sat there trying to take in all that Alex had been going through since she'd been in London. He couldn’t believe Roylott or his step-daughters weren’t letting her try and get home.

“Did you and Julia get along?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah. We weren’t close or anything, but…she was kind to me and I tried to stay out of everyone’s way. Honestly, I got along better with Helen than with Julie…God, I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“Do you know if anyone would have wanted to hurt Julia?”

“No. Not that I knew of. She didn’t really share her social life with me—”

There were footsteps outside the lounge and then Roylott appeared with Lestrade and Helen. The look on the doctor's face could have melted nails and he snarled, pointing an accusing finger at Alex. “She did it!" He bellowed. "She killed my step-daughter!”

 


	9. Diamond in the Rough

Alex gasped. “I didn’t! I didn’t kill Julia!”

Lestrade pulled out a pair of handcuffs with a sigh and Alex stood up, backing away from them all.

“No way, it wasn’t me. What proof do you have?” She asked Lestrade. John stood up, clenching his hands defensively.

“We found your fingerprints on her body.” His voice was weary, like he had really wished it wasn't hers they had found.

“So? Maybe I brushed past her at some point.”

John could see that Alex was trying her best not to get hysterical and he couldn’t help but admire that a bit, considering everything else she’d been dealing with.

“Your hair was found on the body too.”

“Well…” Alex glanced around frantically, “I _did_ spend a lot of time with her and near her.”

“She was killed by a snake, you whore!” Doctor Roylott yelled.

Alex went white. “I got rid of them all before I came to London!” She cried. Lestrade looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here. He carefully clipped the cuffs around her wrists, leaving her hands in front. He would have been reading her rights if slaves had any rights anymore. “No—it wasn’t me! What reason would I have to kill Julie?!” Lestrade guided her out of the room. Doctor Roylott followed, leaving John and Sherlock with Helen.

“Helen?” John asked, breaking the ringing silence. “Do you think she did it?”

“I don’t know.” Helen said.

“She didn’t do it.” Sherlock said confidently, watching Lestrade guide a flabbergasted Alex into the squad car.

“What makes you so sure?” John asked.

“Helen,” Sherlock ignored him. “Would you mind if I poked around the flat for a bit?”

“Not at all.”

“John, you might want to go home. I doubt you can be of any use to me for now.”

Sherlock took off up the steps.

“Wear your collar when you come home!” John yelled after him, slightly stung. There was no response and John watched him sweep out of view before saying good-bye to Helen and going back to Baker Street.

* * *

 

John hailed a cab and got in, surprised to notice that his leg wasn’t even hurting at all anymore. Apparently Sherlock’s presence had been more effective than a trained therapist. John frowned as he thought about that, not sure that it was a reassuring notion.

The cab pulled over at a corner and John narrowed his eyes, about to tell the cabbie to please not pick up another fare, when the door opened and Mycroft Holmes slid into the vehicle. A long black umbrella was hooked over his arm.

“John.” He said with a smile.

“Hello, Mycroft.” John sighed. “I appreciate the non-abduction this time.”

“Who said I’m not abducting you?” Mycroft smiled and John glanced around, panicking. “Stop—I’m joking.”

“Oh. Humor doesn't work very well in your family, Mycroft.”

“No? I thought the look on your face was rather amusing.”

“Did you get in my cab just to talk about my face?”

“No." He pulled out a folder. "I have information pertaining to yours and my brother's safety. It seems Moran and his employer are looking for him."

"What? Why?"

"They want him back. They feel he belongs to them."

"Too bad." John sneered. "You haven't seen what they did to him. Sherlock is going to be scarred for life because of those arseholes and there's no way I'm giving him up without a hell of a fight."

"Admirable." Mycroft said. "Though you won't be able to fight if they kill you, Doctor Watson."

John lifted his chin.

"These men are dangerous, John. Very dangerous."

"So am I." John growled. Mycroft smirked.

"I just want you to be aware that he, and by association you, are being looked for." He produced a folder and handed it to John. Two photos were inside, each labeled with a name.

"Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty." John read. His mind classified them as targets, and John wished he could kill them both right now. It was because of them that Sherlock was the way he was, and because of people like them that the world was so terrifying now. They deserved bullets, nothing less. The car slowed and John glanced out the window. Baker Street.

"I've said this before but I feel it bears repeating: be careful. Not only in your little business venture, but do not underestimate these men. They will stop at nothing to get Sherlock."

John nodded grimly and got out in front of 221, leaving the folder behind.

“Sherlock?” John went up the steps. Sherlock was in the armchair, slouched down with his long legs stretched out straight in front. One ankle was hooked over the other and he was furiously texting.

“Sherlo—?”

“Sh!” Sherlock hissed. His thumbs flew over the keypad as he heard John enter the kitchen and grab the kettle. _Good_ , Sherlock mused. He’d wanted tea, but had been too lazy to get up and make it. He fired off one more text and stood, pacing.

“Who are you texting?” John asked.

“Alex Bailey.” Sherlock said, pacing behind John.

“She’s allowed to text from prison?”

“She’s in a holding cell.” Pace, pace, pace. “She hasn’t been _officially_ charged yet. I told her to tell Lestrade she was texting me and he agreed to turn a blind eye.” Pace, pace, pace.

“Stop pacing! Mrs. Hudson’s going to bang her ceiling with a broom.”

“She used to collect snakes in America.” Sherlock said, stopping.

“What—Mrs. Hudson!?” John said. The electric kettle boiled and John poured two mugs.

“No—Alex.” Sherlock said. “Another damning piece of evidence. Her hair follicle, her finger prints, and now a past history of working closely with reptiles. Snakes, specifically.”

“Have they found the snake that bit Julia?” John asked.

“No.”

“Is there any evidence of a snake having been kept in the flat?”

“No.”

“Any motivation for Alex to kill Julia?” John handed Sherlock a cup of tea.

“No.” Sherlock sipped it. “I went over that _entire_ flat on my hands and knees looking for anything—a shed skin, a dead mouse, a heat lamp—anything that would lead to a snake. There’s nothing. Whoever did it wasn’t a complete moron.”

“Are we certain it _was_ a snake that killed her?”

“Yes! This isn’t helping. I need to think!” He let out a frustrated growl and paced out of the kitchen. John sipped his tea, enjoying the hot brew, when a deafeningly loud _boom_ made him startle and slosh steaming hot liquid all over his hand. His mind flashed back to bright sunlight, the shout of the men in his platoon and the dusty smell of baked sand and dried metal blood. A vivid image of Corporal Ryan—a young, dark-haired lad from Lincolnshire—getting shot in the chest flooded his mind’s eye like waves crashing on a shore. The gunfire. The deafening _bang_ that ripped the air and the bullet that tore through Ryan’s skin, muscle and bone, nicking his lung on the way through. The crimson blood spurting from his chest like a macabre geyser and the brief look of shock on his face before he stumbled back and collapsed on the hard dirt. John hadn’t been able to save him. That was a bad day.

“Fuck!” He hissed. He hurriedly slid the mug onto the counter, gripping the edges of the worn laminate as the vibrant war movie in his head faded as quickly as it had come. This film was always playing through his mind, some days he could look away—a metaphorical curtain swinging across the screen—other days scenes of it reared up out of seemingly nowhere. A smell. A sound. Hell, even a taste could throw him back in the desert without a hint of notice. John tried to avoid putting himself in situations that would trigger the ‘play’ button, but unfortunately, it wasn’t all in his control.

It happened again, a silence-ripping _bang,_ and John winced. Thankfully, no more images popped into his head. “Sherlock!” He bellowed, his voice sharp and tense. He looked up and saw his crazy flatmate holding his Sig (incorrectly, John would add) and firing it indiscriminately at the wall over the sofa.

“I need to think!” Sherlock yelled.

John stalked into the sitting room and tore the gun from Sherlock. The man looked at John as if he had just plucked a half-eaten candy bar from his hand and not a weapon.

“How,” John growled, trying not to tremble, “does firing _my_ gun at the wall help you bloody think!?”

“I need to distract myself periodically to help my thoughts flow more freely.” Sherlock told him. “The gun was available and served my purpose.”

“Served your—!? Do what normal people do and watch telly if you don’t want to think! Go for a walk! Read a book!”

Sherlock made a face. “Inane.”

“Here.” John stomped over to the bookshelf and grabbed a book Sherlock had placed there that had arrived in one of The Boxes. He read the title, “ _Practical Bee-Keeping_?” John couldn’t keep the surprise and frank confusion out of his voice. Sherlock snatched it from him.

“Bees are fascinating.” He said defensively. He strode to his bedroom, book under his arm, not even apologizing for stealing John’s gun and firing it. John suddenly felt very tired as he unloaded the bullets. His leg twinged faintly in ghost pain and he resolutely ignored it as he went up the steps to put his gun away.

* * *

 

"Sherlock?" John called down the hall. "D'you want anything for dinner?" He'd managed to ignore the memories of war, and now his stomach was rumbling. Getting out of the flat might be good. Might clear his head. Sherlock's door flew open. "Indian?" He suggested.

John nodded, surprised. "Sure." He didn't think Sherlock would be hungry.

"How about that place over on Oxford?"

"Sounds good. I'll grab my jacket."

They went out into the early evening, heading south towards the restaurant. John was running food options through his head, wondering what he should get. Curry? Maybe. That spicy beef thing he'd had last time had been pretty good…Sherlock made a sudden left onto a side street.

"Uh, Sherlock? It's this way."

"Detour, Detective Watson." Sherlock called over his shoulder. John sighed. He knew Sherlock had been too amenable to the idea of food. The bastard was up to something. His stomach grumbled and he trotted after the taller man.

"Okay, trusty assistant Holmes," he said, falling into step beside him, "what are we doing?"

"Jewel heist case. By my calculations, this shop up ahead, _Diamonds,_ should be the one to get robbed next."

John slowed his steps. Sherlock kept walking.

"Your _calculations_? What are you, psychic now?"

"Of course not! It was a simple probability algorithm. Anyone looking at a map and tracing the robber's steps could have figured it out‒at least, that's what you're going to tell anyone who asks, correct?"

"Right." John muttered. Though he didn't regret agreeing to pretend to be the detective-in-charge to give Sherlock his autonomy back, it still left an uneasy residue in his mouth whenever they talked about it. It was illegal, what they were doing. Sherlock was doing the work of a free person and in this harsh new world they lived in, it could get very ugly very fast. For both of them.

Sherlock turned into _Diamonds_. The door _dinged_ as he went in and John followed. There were a few customers. A well dressed couple looking at rings and a younger man in an orange jacket browsing collars. An older guy with a white moustache was behind the counter and he greeted John.

"Good evening, sir, what can I interest you in tonight? Perhaps a bauble for your wife?"

He caught sight of Sherlock. He glanced down at his neck, obscured by the scarf, and pressed on.

"Or your slave? We have many beautiful collars available for a good price."

John smiled politely, "actually‒"

"‒your store is going to get robbed in the next twenty-four hours." Sherlock said, acting like he hadn't heard that conversation.

"How do you know this?" The guy said, glancing between them.

Sherlock saw the kid in the orange jacket peek up, eying the men.

"Uh, I figured it out using an algorithm I created." John tried to sound as blasé as possible. "If anyone were to follow the robber's path, they would see that your shop will be next." He nodded.

There was a tug at his sleeve. "Detective Watson?"

"Yes?" John turned and saw the kid warily backing out of the store. When he saw John's attention on him he turned tail and bolted.

Sherlock was after him like a rocket and John darted out on his heels. They flew up the street‒this kid was _fast_. Of course he would be fast, heaven forbid the jewel thief be an asthmatic retiree. The detectives were beside each other, pounding the pavement as fast as they could, but still the thief managed to maintain distance in front of them. He pivoted up another street and almost disappeared in the shuffle of people, only his orange coat giving him away. This was rapidly becoming a lost cause.

John slowed, completely winded and disheartened. He wasn't even embarrassed that he was panting. He'd kept up with Sherlock just fine, and even he was out of breath. Their quarry could on some kind of drug or something for all they knew.

"Dammit." John muttered, hands on knees as his ribs burned. Sherlock, breathing loud beside him, glanced around. "John." He said. The doctor glanced up and saw Sherlock striding towards two police horses, one black, one dapple grey, that were tethered outside a convenience store.

"Sherlock, _no."_

"Can you ride?" Sherlock untied the animals.

"We are _not_ commandeering a pair of bleeding copper horses to chase after a suspect."

The detective slipped his foot in the stirrup and swooped into the saddle of the grey with a graceful sweep of his coat and tore off down the street.

"Fucking hell." John straightened and clambered into the black's saddle. He gathered the reins and nudged with his heels, and he was off at a brisk trot that quickly turned into a gallop. He _could_ ride. Part of his army training actually included a short module on basic horsemanship. Instructions from his trainer popped into his head. _Heels down, grip with your legs…_ hooves clattered on pavement as the horse navigated the flat industrial terrain with ease. Unfortunately, their path took them directly down the main road. Sherlock would blaze a trail up ahead, with pedestrians leaping out of the way as John brought up the rear, calling apologies. It was easy to follow the detective, even around the corners, as the set of hooves slamming asphalt was painfully loud. The shouts of bewildered passersby provided a nice guide too.

Once John got over the initial 'this is completely ridiculous' idea of stealing from the police, this was actually insanely fun. The night was cool and the wind was roaring in his ears, bringing up a healthy flush to his face. Adrenaline was singing through his veins and John grinned, hunching forward and nudging his heels further into the horse's flanks. The horse was more than game, and it sped up until it was neck in neck with Sherlock's mount.

The detective peered over at John, and when he saw the crazy huge smile on his face, Sherlock grinned too. John was having such fun that he nearly forgot about the suspect until they caught a flash of his orange coat slipping through an iron gate up ahead. The gate clanged locked behind and he kept running. The fence was at least eight feet high‒far too tall to jump.

"Oh no." John moaned.

"This way!" Sherlock called. His horse made a swift right. They were headed for a park surrounded by neatly coifed bushes. The grey bunched his hind legs and cleared a hedge. John took a breath‒he'd never jumped on a horse before‒ and held on tight. His stomach lifted into his chest as the rhythmic pounding halted and they sailed over the short bushes. Thankfully, the animal made the jump with ease and he stayed in the saddle.

They wove in and out of tall oak trees in the twilight, making their way diagonally across the park, pounding over the thick turf. Fireflies glowed in the low branches and deep shadows were filling out the grass. The scent of wet earth and greenery filled their noses, and the atmosphere gave the whole feel of the chase a moody sort of adventurous air. John felt a small yet incredibly strong sense of happiness and in a weird way, peace. This was fun. This was the most fun he'd had in ages.

They both jumped another hedge and landed on the pavement again. John was pleasantly surprised to see their suspect running not ten feet from where they erupted. He gave a startled yip and put on a burst of speed, but the two horses were faster.

"Stop!" Sherlock bellowed, skidding in front of the man and cutting him off in a crash of hooves and a whinny. The guy turned and almost ran right into John's mount.

"Don't even think about it. It's over." John growled. The guy seemed to finally give up‒he was panting like a sheepdog in summer‒and Sherlock and John dismounted. Sirens blared in the distance. John patted his horse's nose in equal parts thanks and relief. He also took one more look around at the night as the police cars swung into view and a nervous glow grew in his chest. That had been fun as hell, but it might very well be the last time he saw the stars as a free man for a while.

He let out a huge sigh of relief when Lestrade and Donovan got out of one of the cars. Unfortunately, his relief was short lived when several officers more or less tackled him and threw him against the bonnet of the police car with a heavy _whump._ The car was warm under his pounding heart and exhaling hot air against his thighs. John winced in pain as his knee ground into the bumper but he didn't fight back. They were in enough trouble. He was cuffed and he hissed as his tight shoulder protested, being screamed at all the while to "don't move!"

"Hey‒hey! Lestrade yelled. He got out of his car.

Sherlock was thrown over the hood with a muffled "mmph!" and cuffed as well. More shouts of "don't move" and "who do you belong to?"

"He's mine." John said.

"Shutup!"

"Hey!" Lestrade again. "They're not resisting, ease off!"

Rough hands gradually lifted off their bodies. John didn't dare get up, and thankfully Sherlock seemed to have the same idea. Lestrade came up to the side of the car, arms folded, and looked down at both men. One brow was raised at a disapproving angle.

"Evening, officer." Sherlock said dryly.

Lestrade shrugged, clearly at a loss to rationalize their behavior. "Just decided to go on a joyride with some police ponies?" Behind him, officers were loading the stolen horses into a trailer.

"There was nothing on the telly." John answered. "Nothing good on Mondays."

Sherlock snickered. "We were pursuing a suspect‒and caught him, I might add." Sherlock glanced behind himself, to where an officer was pushing the suspect into the back of a car. He seemed happy to sit down after all that running. Sherlock started to rise‒

"‒no." Greg spoke as if he was teaching an excited puppy a new trick. "Stay."

With a frown and a sigh, he lowered back over the hood.

"Do you two have any idea how much paperwork you just created for me?" Lestrade glanced down at John. "Sherlock I would expect this from, but you?" He wasn't actually angry. Annoyed yes, but more in a 'disappointed yet mildly amused father' kind of way as opposed to an 'enraged officer' way. John supposed that if Lestrade got very upset with Sherlock every time he did something hare-brained, his blood pressure would have caused him to explode by now.

"The radio." John said. "Also nothing good on the radio."

"Oh good God. There's two of you now." Lestrade stared up at the heavens in a silent prayer.

"May we stand?" John asked in his politest voice.

"Yeah, up you go."

Both men stood, and John knew instantly that he was going to be sore tomorrow. His shirt was stiff with dried sweat and his face was windburned. His legs and back were sore but damn that had been a blast. Lestrade put a hand on each of their shoulders and steered them towards his own police car. Other officers turned to help, but Lestrade waved them away. "I got them, don't worry."

"Well." Donovan came out of the throng and opened the back door. Sherlock and John got in without being told. "Had fun, did you?" She asked when they were all in the car. "Stealing from the police was an idiotic thing to do before The Fall‒now you're each looking at time in the pillory."

"Sally." Greg murmured.

"It's true." She said.

Neither prisoner responded, but John snuck a glance at Sherlock and they both grinned into their chests, hiding their faces like two schoolboys giggling in church.

As it transpired, Sally was wrong, and no one was going to the pillory. Though there were some soldiers stationed with Scotland Yard, the officers themselves still had basically the same job as before. Major problems could get escalated up, where soldiers would step in and break the Republic 'laws' over the heads of miscreants, but that was entirely up to the officers. The Republic had bigger problems to deal with and the soldiers were mostly there to look scary with their guns and keep the peace.

With Lestrade taking charge of them, the threat of a horrible sentence was significantly reduced. The suspect had robbed four shops and when he pleaded guilty, their sentence was reduced even further.

"You wouldn't have one at all if you hadn't stolen those horses." Lestrade said.

"Borrowed." Sherlock and John spoke together.

It wasn't bad. They were allowed to use the toilet in private and amazingly, Greg even snuck them half a pizza to split for dinner since they never made it to the Indian place. Even more amazing, Sherlock ate a whole slice.

"Don't get used to this kind of four star jail treatment." Greg said from outside the cell as John and Sherlock snarfed down the pie. "That pizza was either going in the rubbish or your stomachs, so…"

"Thanks, Greg. Appreciate it." John said through a mouthful of onion and sausage.

Sherlock hummed in response.

Greg rolled his eyes, suppressing a hint of a smile.

"Since we're here," Sherlock said, swallowing his bite of pizza, "I'd like to speak with Miss Bailey."

"This isn’t a hotel!" Lestrade said. "You can't just pop around the halls saying hello."

"I would hope a hotel would have better accommodations…" Sherlock murmured, eying the toilet in the corner. When the officer didn't move, Sherlock frowned. "Let me out, Detective Inspector, I need to speak with her."

"Sherlock, you're in jail! Not off visiting one of your bloody mates! You can't just be let out."

Sherlock tucked his coat tighter around himself. "All of my mates are in this cell with me and it would behoove you, Inspector, to allow me to speak with Miss Bailey. It's your case and she's a suspect in it, but if you'd like me to sit on my backside and watch John finish the pizza‒"

‒the doctor looked up, helping himself to a third slice‒

"‒then on your head be it." Sherlock finished. He sat primly on the edge of the cot next to John, staring pointedly at the wall. The doctor licked a bit of grease off his finger and glanced at Lestrade.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Lestrade let out an exasperated sound and walked away. Moments later the cell door _click_ ed open and a smug grin spread over Sherlock's lips.

"I can give you _five_ minutes." Greg growled, returning and pulling open the door. Sherlock stepped out and Lestrade pushed it until it was almost closed. No point in locking it, they were just going to be back soon. And it's not like John would bolt. "But first," Lestrade said, "let's go by my office…" They made their way up a flight of stairs. “The test results came back and we know the type of venom that killed Julia Roylott.” Greg flipped the light on in his office and turned to the mountainous stack of papers on the desk and, like magic, pulled out a single sheet from the middle of the sloppy pile. He handed it to Sherlock.

“North American Coral Snake.” Sherlock said, scanning the readout. “ _Micrurus fulvius.”_ Narrowing his eyes, he strode off. Lestrade hurried after.

"I can't just let you wander." He said to Sherlock's raised brow. "You _are_ under arrest….technically I should have you in handcuffs and on a leash." The detective gave him a look of equal parts horror and anger. "But my boss isn't here and I don't particularly _want_ to, so I won't." They got to the holding cells in the basement and Lestrade produced some keys. "That five minutes starts now." He opened the door to the cells and Sherlock strode in.

“Mr. Holmes?” Alex was in the cell closest to the door and she stood up when he entered. They were alone in the temporary cell area and Alex looked tired and scared. She was wearing the same clothes Sherlock had seen her in when she was arrested, albeit more wrinkled. She was wearing one of The Republic’s standard-issue prisoner collars: a heavy metal shackle. Sherlock knew from experience they were uncomfortable. Alex clasped the cell bars loosely and rested her forehead against the cool metal, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t do it.” She said.

“I believe you.”

“Please…” she tugged a scrap of white paper out of her pocket and thrust it through the bars at him. Sherlock took it, a flutter of excitement in his belly at the prospect of new evidence. What he saw scribbled on the paper was far less exciting and far more depressing.

“It’s my address and the names of my family in Massachusetts.” She clutched the bars more tightly. “ _Please_ , Mr. Holmes…I need to contact them and I have no one else to turn to. I don’t know, these cops and soldiers don’t give a damn and I need to at least try, because if I get charged with Julie’s murder I’m gonna get sold to the Republic and then they’ll really never know what happened to me.”

Her words were pragmatic, depressing as that was. He was mildly annoyed that this paper didn’t contain a break in the case, but the part of him that had been enslaved for three years softened at her plight, moving even his socially distant heart to compassion. To Sherlock’s horror, Alex was near tears as she stared at the piece of white paper in his gloved hand, Scotland Yard’s letterhead across the top.

“I’ll put my best man on it.” Sherlock tucked the note in his pocket. “On the day you were arrested, you said something about getting rid of snakes?”

Alex nodded. “I’ve always had pet snakes—even as a kid. When I knew I was coming to London to study, I gave them away. My parents didn’t really like them, and I didn’t want them to have to deal with taking care of the snakes, so I got rid of them.”

“What kind of snakes did you have?”

“Uh…A ball python, a coral snake, a corn snake—”

“A coral snake?” Sherlock repeated. “Like this?” He slid Lestrade’s report through the bars and she took it, reading.

“Oh no.” She whispered, her face going white. “I—Sherlock, I had this same species, but I swear I didn’t have one here—in London—when Julie died!”

Sherlock snatched the paper back from her. “On the day you were arrested, where were you and Dr. Roylott coming from?”

“Just the store. He had just come back home the previous night.”

"From where?"

“He was at a medical conference in…Vienna, er no, Vilnius I think…”

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the murder? Any clues, any changes in anyone’s behavior? Think. Your freedom depends on it.”

“No—Julie was happy—she had just gotten engaged.”

“Engaged?” Sherlock interrupted. “She had no ring.”

“She didn’t wear it on her finger.” Alex said. “She was kinda weird about the ring. I’d seen it around her neck on a chain, but she’d also keep it in her pocket and stuff too. I don’t know why she didn’t just wear it on her finger. She mentioned once that she didn’t want to get mugged. You know, a thief would see the diamond and try to take it.” Alex shrugged. “She might have had it on her when she died.”

Sherlock filed away that bit of information.

“Hey…” She leaned closer to the bars, “can I tell you something?” She asked.

Sherlock slid his eyes to her, warily, half-expecting her to tell him that she found him really attractive or that he had a ‘sexy voice’ or something ridiculous like that.

“I think Doctor Roylott did it.” Alex whispered. Sherlock relaxed minutely.

“Why is that?” He said.

“I don’t know how, since he was gone, but I think it has something to do with that annuity—it makes sense, you know?”

“ _What_ annuity?” Sherlock hissed. “Explain it quickly and intelligently.”

“I don’t know a lot about it, something about if Julie or Helen gets married, Roylott stops getting money from their mother’s estate. Julie mentioned it. She’s dead now—their mother, I mean.”

Sherlock’s brows went up in interest.

“That’s all I know about the annuity though. Ask Helen.”

“I will.” Sherlock turned and started striding for the exit, excited. New evidence!

“Wait!” She yelled.

Sherlock growled and turned around.

“Remember about my family!”

Sherlock nodded once and strode out the door. "Lestrade, John and I need to go to Bart's. Time is of the essence in this case."

"Tomorrow." Lestrade said. "Don't push it, Sherlock."

The detective scowled. Fine, he'd endure the one night in the cell, but first thing tomorrow, he and John were going to see if another one of his acquaintances survived The Fall.

 


	10. A Violin

“Sherlock?!” Molly Hooper could barely keep the bubbly excitement out of her voice as the tall figure strode into the morgue like he owned it.

Sherlock graced her with half a smile. He _was_ pleased to see her, despite the way he had treated her in the past that might suggest otherwise. To his surprise, Molly threw her arms around him in a quick hug, pulling away almost instantly.

“I’m…glad you’re alright.” She said.

“And I’m glad you’re well, Molly.” Sherlock glanced down at the pink glittery collar—it _would_ be a pink glittery collar. “Who owns you?” He asked bluntly. Molly dropped her gaze, looking a little lost and embarrassed at the direct question. He blinked, his face softening, and glanced over at John, who was looking at him less than impressed. _Rude_ , Sherlock could imagine him saying. _A bit not good, Sherlock._ “Hey.” He said, his voice quieter. He tilted his head back and pointed to the charcoal collar on his throat, standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin.

“Oh-oh,” she stuttered, “you’re…you’re _owned_ too?” She looked at John.

"John Watson." He extended his hand and they shook. "Sherlock and I are flatmates."

"He's my owner." Sherlock told her. "Got me at an auction house."

"They were horrible and Mike was being wishy-washy." John ground out, annoyed that Sherlock seemed pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. "I didn't know what they were going to do to you!"

"So you rescued me, brave soldier that you are."

"Would you rather I left you?"

"You made me miss out on pasta night. My favorite."

John snorted. "You're such an arse!"

They stared at each other, then each grinned and looked away.

Molly glanced between, looking a little confused. “Oh. Yes of course." She said after a moment. "Um, well, my owner’s very nice—I think you know him. That handsome chap at Scotland Yard? Greg Lestrade?”

“He owns a _slave_ —he owns _you_? _”_ Sherlock’s voice was sharp with astonishment.

“Yes!” Molly grinned. “We met right around The Fall and he mentioned trying to get you too, but…”

“He failed miserably.” Sherlock said in a dull voice.

“…so then he asked if I was going to be alright, and well, my parents were busy and my brother…well, he wasn’t going to be able to help me out, so Greg offered to b-buy me.” She was quiet for a moment, then plastered on a smile. “It was really nice of him! There's plenty of space and he's very nice. I’m lucky.” She said in a more somber tone. “I got a good one, like you did." She glanced again at John. "I can do just about everything I could do before The Republic came along.”

Sherlock took an impatient breath. “A body was brought in recently.” He interrupted. “Younger woman. Julia Roylott?”

Molly cleared her throat and went to her desk where she retrieved a clipboard. A fuzzy-capped aqua pen was stuck under the clip. “Let’s see…oh yeah—here we go—”

“Were there any items that came in with her?” Sherlock asked.

“Um…” Molly flipped a page, revealing lots of neatly printed loopy handwriting in charts. “Yeah, she had her clothes—black flats, an ivory blouse—”

“Anything that wasn’t clothing?”

“There was a pack of gum, five quid and a ring.”

Sherlock smiled. “May I see Ms. Roylott’s items?”

* * *

 

“Nothing was touched in here after The Fall.” Molly brought them to the storage area where the hospital kept all the bagged items that came in with the bodies until they could be claimed by family members. “Though I suppose, why would it be touched? No one wants what belonged to the dead.”

"Unless it's money" Sherlock muttered. Molly brought them down one aisle of shelves laden with detritus clothing, shoes, wallets, jewelry, and whatnot. “Here we go—”

She stopped by Julia’s clothes and Sherlock grabbed the plastic bag containing the ring. He held the bagged gold band up, watching the diamond glitter in the florescent light.

“Nice ring.” Molly chirped. “Her fiancé must be well off…poor man. To lose someone like that after everything that’s happened.”

“Molly, may I use some of the equipment here?”

“Of course. Just like old times, huh?” She sounded pleased. “Either of you want coffee?"

"Oh, no thanks."

"Black, two sugars." He gave her a grin and strode back out into the main lab area. Sherlock put the ring in the machine and ran it.

"Oh, the officers already did that..." Molly said.

"Which is why I'm doing it again." Sherlock told her. The machine started to whir. Sherlock stared at it. John checked his watch.

"It takes a while sometimes." Molly called from the other room. "I can text you when it's done?"

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock got up.

"Can you just put that back with her effects?" Molly yelled. Something fell as she spoke and it sounded like she might have her hands full. John went to help and Sherlock got up and, replacing the ring in the bag, went to return it to the labeled shelves of items.

He put the ring with the gum and cash and as he was leaving, his eyes caught the rounded edge of a very familiar black shape on the shelf directly below Julia’s. He squatted to get a better look and his face softened at the sight of the oblong black violin case. He tugged it out and flipped the clasps on the case, his lips suddenly very dry and his heart thumping. A golden violin was nestled in the blue crushed velvet lining. Sherlock swallowed. A matching golden bow was clipped into the lid of the case. The violin was missing the D and the A strings, and the E string fine tuner was tarnished almost black, but the wood itself was shining, undulled by rosin. Molly bustled in after a moment. "Everything okay?" She asked.

“Molly...” Sherlock said, his voice croaking. Molly leaned over him and read the tag attached to the case.

“It’s from a John Doe that came in six years ago. Probably homeless. A busker.”

They were silent for a moment. Sherlock plucked the E string. It was horribly out of tune.

“Take it, if you want it.” Molly said.

Sherlock stared at her. His phone chirped again and Sherlock ignored it.

“I know you play.” She said, shrugging. “It’s not doing anyone any good sitting down here. And after six years, I doubt anyone is going to come claim it.”

Sherlock snapped the lid closed and stood, hoisting it over his shoulder by the strap.

“Thank you, Molly.” He said sincerely. His fingers itched already.

“No problem!” She said, beaming. “You’ll have to come and play for me sometime. I’m sure Greg would love it too…”

Sherlock would play whenever she wanted.

* * *

 

Sherlock walked back to the flat, a bounce in his step. A violin! Just handed to him. What a stroke of good fortune. "Didn’t know you played." John said, amused by his bounciness.

"Since I was a child." He said.

"Has it been very long since you played?"

Moran had destroyed his other violin, the one he’d had since he was twenty. It was part of his breaking process. Moran systematically destroyed some of Sherlock’s belongings (he wasn’t sure what had hurt more, the violin or the microscope) before declaring the violin to be a ‘girly’ instrument anyway. He didn't say any of this though.

"Not since The Fall." He said.

They stopped by a music shop on the way home, getting the violin restrung and buying some rosin and a shoulder rest. He knew he still had his old music stand and compositions in one of the delivered boxes. By the time he got home, he was nearly giddy to play and he didn't even care that John was smiling at his enthusiasm as he went to make tea for the both of them.

Sherlock rosined the golden bow and attached the black shoulder rest snugly to the body of the instrument. He placed the bow on the A string and pulled…and stepped into another world. The sweet, clear note filled the room and Sherlock closed his eyes as he pressed fingertips into the strings, his hands and arms remembering exactly what to do. Bits and pieces of scores long abandoned started fluttering out of the music room in his palace. He held the compositions in his head, mentally scanning from one measure to the next. He may have accidentally hit another string now and then, and perhaps his intonation as just a little off, but he didn’t care. There would be time to remember it properly later. Now he was playing again and he was able to go to that place that The Republic or any of his _owners_ could never touch.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the sun was setting. He was certain it had been fully light out when he started. He blinked a few times, then swung the instrument down from his shoulder. He winced as his left shoulder blade twinged, the muscles unused to being in that position for so long. John was sitting at the desk, typing quietly. A stone cold cup of tea was on the mantle, clearly meant for him to have. He must have been playing for ages. He put the violin away in the case, feeling refreshed and light. He crouched to stow it under his chair and something in his pocket crinkled. He pulled the paper out‒Alex's list of family. He dropped it on the desk beside John and checked his phone. No messages from Molly or otherwise. With a huff, he went into his room to change into something more comfortable.

He returned to the sitting room, having changed into a dressing gown and PJ bottoms, and was texting Helen when John spoke up. "What's this?"

“That’s Alex Bailey’s kin.” Sherlock said distractedly. “I agreed to help her contact her family in America.”

“That’s nice of you.” John said, moved by Sherlock’s compassion.

“Mm. I told her I’d put my best man on it.”

“Really? Who’s that?”

Sherlock sent the text: _What is the annuity agreement regarding your sister’s marriage? –SH_

“I’d recommend Google.” He put his phone aside and steepled his hands under his chin, falling silent.

“For what?” John asked, perusing the sheet.

“To find Alex’s family.” Sherlock said slowly. “Google, or Facebook.”

“Wait— _I’m_ your best man?”

Sherlock let out a sigh worthy of a sulky teenager. “Don’t act stupider than you are.”

“Hey!”

“That’s not what I meant—” Sherlock swung up to a sitting position. “You can focus on finding her family while I do the important things.”

“Your empathy astounds me.” John said dryly.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He snatched it up. _I'm in the area, Mr. Holmes, could I just come by your flat to tell you about the annuity? ‒Helen_

_Come at once. ‒SH_

Sherlock’s eyes widened as an idea popped into his head. “John!”

“What?” John said warily. “No more shooting the wall.” He decided to get _that_ out of the way right off the bat.

“Alex said Roylott was at a medical conference in Vilnius.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you be able to find out if this conference did indeed occur?”

John shrugged. “I guess. I could call Stamford, see what he knows.”

“Excellent.”

“Do you still think Dr. Roylott did it?”

“Everyone is a suspect.” Sherlock answered. The doorbell buzzed and Sherlock bolted out of the flat.

“We’re having company!?” John hollered as Sherlock dashed down the stairs. He glanced around painfully at the state of the sitting room. Piles of papers, clothes, dishes covered in leftovers that were starting to crust. John yanked one of Sherlock’s unwashed shirts off the black bison head, throwing it into the detective’s room. He threw a dish and a knife into the sink with a clatter and was shoving a mess behind a chair when Sherlock appeared again in the room, escorting a primly coifed Helen Roylott. She had the sleepless, worried look of someone who had spent many recent hours pacing, and she clutched her ivory handbag tightly as she stepped into the flat.

“Hello, Ms. Roylott.” John said, wishing he had thought to crack open the window or—dammit, Mrs. Hudson had put that sweetly-scented candle on the mantle last time she was here. A polite yet pointed way of saying the flat stunk.

“Hello, Doctor.” She said. Sherlock closed the door behind and John noted that his flatmate was still in pajama bottoms and bare feet. He imagined his mother tutting at the flat and Sherlock’s state of dress in the presence of a young woman in their home and he sent a mental ‘sorry, mum.’ The young woman in question didn’t seem to notice or care about her surroundings.

“Please, call me Helen.” She said. John gestured to the sofa and she perched on the edge, ankles crossed, and tucked some stray hair behind her ear.

“Can I get you something to drin—”

Sherlock appeared with a cup of tea in a saucer for Helen. She took it with a grateful “thank you.”

Sherlock grabbed his armchair and tugged it towards the sofa, aiming it so it was facing Helen. He jumped into it with his knees to his chest and settled.

“So about the annuity agreement…?” He prompted her.

Helen put the cup down in the saucer and licked her lips, raising her head to meet John's and Sherlock’s eyes.

“Our mother married Paul Roylott when I was ten and Julia was seven. He was…distant towards us. I don’t think he much liked children. Our mother was a fragile creature in our youth, often sick, trusting to the point of naiveté. I’m not sure what she ever saw in Paul. He was handsome when they married. Movie star handsome, even, but his disposition was volatile. He liked to drink—he still does, and I always got the impression Julia and I were just in his way.”

John glanced at Sherlock, wondering if the detective was going to prompt her to continue or roll his eyes pointedly, but Sherlock was sitting statue still and expressionless, watching Helen speak.

“Julia and I grew up comfortably. Our mother inherited monetary wealth from her parents when they died, and we spent our summers at the inherited chateau in France, or travelling.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair.

“Right now, Paul Roylott gets a sum of money from our mother’s estate every year. Those were the terms of the will—no doubt orchestrated by Paul. He will continue to get this money until both Julia and I get engaged. Or,” she took a breath, “if one of us dies, he’ll get a large lump sum of money upon the death—enough to kill for. No doubt Julia's…payment, has already gone through.”

Sherlock put his feet on the floor and leaned forward, his steepled fingers covering his lips.

Helen stuck out her left hand, revealing a shiny silver ring on her third finger.

“My boyfriend came down from Cambridge and proposed yesterday.” She said, her voice trembling. “If I get married, Roylott will stop getting his money. My death, though, will ensure a large monetary sum from my mother’s estate.”

 


	11. Once a Slave

_**I'm going to put a small disclaimer on this chapter. There's some slave-y stuff in this one. Nothing really graphic though.** _

* * *

 

“So you think your stepfather killed Julia?” John asked carefully. “To get the large sum of money?”

Helen took a deep breath. “I hate to think it, Doctor Watson, but I’m not stupid. Paul never showed Julia or me any love. I don’t doubt that he married my mother for her family’s money. He’s a disgraced doctor—he got hit with a malpractice suit right around The Fall, and he’s been even more…temperamental since. He was unkind to us both, and he could be cruel to Alex. Without his doctoring to fall back on, he needs that money now more than ever.”

“Julia said something about ‘a striped band,’ has anything come of that?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I still don’t know what she was talking about.”

“Thank you, Ms. Roylott.” Sherlock said. “You’ve been helpful.”

“Where are you staying?” John asked. “Are you going back to Cambridge?”

“I’m going to be in London for a few more days, until this is all sorted. I’m staying with my step-father.”

John blinked. _Seriously?_ “Do you feel safe there?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She waved John off and stood. “Even if it _was_ him, he wouldn’t try anything with me so soon after Julia’s death. That would make him look suspicious for sure.”

“Helen,” Sherlock said, “do you know anything about a snake?”

“A snake?”

“Yes. Your sister was killed via a snakebite. A Coral Snake, to be exact. The poison was in her system.”

“I think Alex used to keep snakes.” Helen said.

“Have you ever seen a snake in your step-father’s flat?”

“No. Never. He doesn’t like animals.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock relapsed into his favored thinking position and went quiet. Helen glanced at him, then looked at John curiously.

“Ah, he gets like that. Let me show you to the door.” John escorted her downstairs and into a cab, wishing her well and watching as the black taxi drove off into the afternoon.

“Helen Roylott?” A cultured voice said. John jumped and turned, laying eyes on Mycroft’s grinning face. He was once again dressed in a dapper three piece suit, the infernal umbrella under his left arm, while under his right, he carried a small-ish cardboard box.

“God, Mycroft…give a bloke a heart attack…”

“Jumpy, Doctor?”

“Not usually. Only when I’m snuck up on by a former abductor. You want to see Sherlock?”

“Is he in?” Mycroft asked.

John glanced up at the window, noting the swish of curtain.

“Yeah, he’s in.”

* * *

 

John entered the foyer with Mycroft, surprised to hear what sounded like the violin being played furiously from their flat.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Sherlock.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and put the box on the sofa as the detective sawed away at the strings, angry and hissing.

_“Mycroft.”_ Sherlock growled his brother’s name and the violin went up in pitch.

John felt a grin come over his face as Sherlock played and Mycroft waited patiently for him to finish, pointedly checking his pocket watch. Sherlock caught John's eye, saw the approval, and ratcheted the annoyance up.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft hollered. The routine between them felt familiar, and John laughed at the idea of a much younger Sherlock and Mycroft in their childhood home, Sherlock ignoring his brother by drowning him out with noise. “Put that down and let me speak to you!”

“Why?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and defiantly kept playing.

Mycroft grit his teeth and stepped forward and Sherlock finally quieted, stepping well out of reach and setting the violin and bow on John’s armchair.

“Tea, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked pleasantly.

John snorted. Mycroft took a moment to collect himself. “No.” He said. “I won’t be long.”

“Good.” Sherlock said.

“I spoke to Lestrade this morning," Mycroft continued. "I heard you had a run-in with the officers? Something about _stealing_ from the mounted police?"

John looked away. Mycroft sounded alarmingly like an upset father, not unlike Lestrade had seemed.

At this, Sherlock scowled darkly and reached for the violin again. Mycroft stepped smoothly between his brother and the instrument. “Sherlock, must I remind you to be careful around the police now? You two have already embarked on this illegal small business venture so please do yourselves a favor and don't go out of your way to _attract_ police attention!”

“You sound like Lestrade.” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, well, Gregory makes a valid point. It’s only because we care about your best interest."

The detective flopped into his chair with a sulky little frown on his face. "Is that all?" He drawled.

“No. I found another box of your items and I’ve brought it.”

“I hope you didn’t touch any of it.”

“You’re welcome. Clothes, mostly.”

Sherlock grunted and Mycroft strode out into the sitting room. He paused by the mirror over the mantle to adjust his hair and give himself a glance over.

“I must be off.”

“Aw, so soon?” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with distaste.

“Goodbye, John.” Mycroft said.” See you soon, I’m sure.” Mycroft left the flat and Sherlock slammed and locked the door behind him.

"Why are you two at each other's throats all the time?"

"We have history." Sherlock said simply. He made sure the bolt was bolted and he sank to the chair again, only to bounce up when his phone buzzed.

_Hi Sherlock! The prints on the ring finished. Julia Roylott and a John Doe. I'll email you the full results. ‒Molly_

Sherlock put his phone away. John Doe. He went to his computer and opened the email, downloading the results to a memory stick. All the evidence so far was pointing to Paul Roylott: the volatile attitude towards his step-daughters, the annuity that said he would get money upon their deaths, the mysterious snakebite. And yet…something about it wasn't sitting well with Sherlock. It seemed too easy. He needed to know who that John Doe on the ring was. Someone else that Julia was close too, clearly….

"Sherlock?" John waved at his flatmate. "Sherlock? Do you want anything to eat? We haven't eaten since the pizza yesterday…" No response. Sherlock was gone, his eyes distant, a look John was recognizing as 'mind palace.'

Seeing that he wasn't going to get any more out of the man, John found some leftover take away in the fridge, heated t up, and went to his computer. He had no idea how to begin tracking strangers from another country. His homepage was _The Source,_ run by the Princeton graduate, and he frowned at a new posting: _Tensions brewing in heart of London._ He clicked the link and read about how some members of _PFFS_ ‒People for the Freedom of Slaves‒had clashed with soldiers near St. James Park. That was close to home.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said. John glanced at his flatmate. He wasn't even facing him, how the hell…?

"Oh uh, just there was a skirmish with some soldiers outside St. James Park."

"Boring."

"Not really." John kept reading. "Two people are in hospital." He said aloud. "They think the laoban might be in danger."

"He's always in danger." Sherlock sniffed. "There's not one slave in this city that would pass up a chance to shoot him in the head." He seemed supremely unperturbed by the news of the skirmish, and maybe John was wrong to be worried, but the soldier in him was roused and he tried to put it from his mind.

* * *

 

"Jim?"

"Yes, Seb?"

"I've just received these." Moran handed Moriarty his phone. His lip curled up in a grin as he flicked through the candid photos of an unsuspecting Sherlock and John, walking down the street. "So that's his new master." Moriarty murmured, eying John. "Looks ordinary." He handed the phone back to Sebastian. "Soon." He said to Moran. "He's in London and he's not going anywhere. Don't worry. We'll have him back before you know it."

* * *

 

Sherlock grabbed his coat. He needed to get out of here. The place smelled of Mycroft. He ripped open the box and rooted through it, smirking as he pulled out a blue cloth scarf. He looped it around his throat, feeling more complete.

“Where are you going?” John asked. Sherlock absently rummaged through the box, eying the contents. He stilled at the sight of the black riding crop resting on a stack of socks and shirts. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and lifted it into the light. What was once a handy tool for casework was now a wretchedly sentimental reminder of the scars on his back.

_“Cheeky fucker.” Some nameless goon who obviously worked for The Republic and Moriarty sneered at him. A hand twisting in his hair, tearing out the follicles. Stinging pain. Dragged across the floor, tied tight at the wrists, scraping, then the bite and lash of the crop against his bare back. “Get it through your smartarse skull—you are a slave. Your old life is gone.”_

The memories of various forms of physical and emotional abuse rushed out of the dark mess of “the slave room” and into the hallways in Sherlock’s palace. The scent of the leather, the weight and flex of it made him nearly wince even as his brain continued a lightning-fast path of associations with the item. Crop. Pain. Slavery. Corpses. Horse-racing. Kinky sex. Leather. Cow hide. Cows. Milk… The images became more tangential and obscure the further they travelled from ‘riding crop’ and Sherlock shook his head, making them all scatter. He dropped the crop on the sofa.

“Research.” Sherlock said absently to John. He turned away from the box. “There's something about this case that I don't like."

“Do you think a snake didn’t actually bite her?” John said, oblivious to what had just pounded through Sherlock’s brain. “That it was injected some other way?

“Oh no, I’m sure it was a snake.” Sherlock said. “The puncture marks on the throat matched the fang prints of a North American Coral Snake—another point against Alex Bailey. But there was no evidence in the flat of a snake ever being kept.”

“Maybe she _did_ do it.” John murmured. “She used to keep snakes in America—she would know what was poisonous and what wasn’t.”

“Yes, but then what is her motive?” Sherlock said.

“I…don’t know.” John paused. “It could have been Helen.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “Just a moment ago you thought it was Alex. Some detective you would make, Doctor. Don’t quit your day job.” He meant for the jibe the be gentle, a little humor to balance his current dark thoughts, but John didn’t take it that way.

“Like I can!” John snarled, well aware that he didn’t actually _have_ a day job yet and hating that Sherlock was reminding him of it. He was well aware that he couldn't afford his half of the rent (yet) and that at this point he owed Sherlock money instead of the other way around. He was _looking_ , dammit.

Sherlock looked up at him, surprised at his tone and his angry face, before glancing at the floor, a twirl of nerves in his belly. What was the first thing he’d learned since becoming a slave? Don’t upset your owner. _But John is different!_

His surprise must have shown on his face, because the doctor seemed to catch himself. "I‒sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to snap like that. I don't know the first thing about sleuthing, despite what the website says, and my suggestions are probably laughable." John glanced back at his screen.

"They're not." Sherlock raised his chin and spoke firmly. John looked up again. "A second opinion can be invaluable. I do appreciate the input."

"Oh. Good."

"Even when it's painfully, dismally wrong."

"Cheers."

“That isn't to say you're all wrong. Helen Roylott is hardly an innocent in all this. Until she got engaged herself, she didn’t think to mention this annuity that frankly threatens her and her sister’s lives. Alex hasn’t been able to contact her family—if Helen cared at all about her, you’d think she’d have helped her do so. That’s what sentiment does to people.”

"Or it could be Paul Roylott." John said.

“Yes. As I said, everyone is a suspect.” Sherlock moved for the door‒

"‒do you really need to go now?" John glanced out the window at the dark sky. "Is it, safe? We just got in trouble with the police, and Mycroft seems worried."

"Mycroft worries too much for his own good and it'll be safer if you're with me." Sherlock said. John picked up his coat. "Where are we going?"

"We're breaking into Scotland Yard."

John stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why!?"

"I need to access their fingerprint database and do a wider search on John Doe."

"Can't you just ask Lestrade tomorrow?"

"I texted him. He's not responding. Come _on_ , John! You want Julia Roylott's killer to be caught, right?"

"Well, yes."

"And you want Alex to go home safe and sound?"

"Of course."

"Then we need to visit Scotland Yard. The longer we wait, the better the chance her killer will never be caught."

John sighed, long and loud. "Fine. We're going to be quick, though. Bring your collar and leash, I don't want any trouble on the way there."

"Yes, yes!" Sherlock swept out of the flat and John followed, saying a small prayer.

* * *

 

The streets were pretty quiet. Some people walked around with shopping bags or the like, but given that it was a weekday and not the warmest evening, the pavements were empty. Soldiers were commonplace, but they didn't pay a master and slave any attention as they strolled down the street. Sherlock, despite being the one with the leash on his neck, lead John around the back of the station and through a side door. John handed him the loop, not voicing his really bad feeling about this whole endeavor. Most of the lights were off and the doors closed, as the majority of the staff weren't in. A skeleton crew manned the place, just a few dispatchers and cleaners. They made it to Lestrade's office unscathed and appeared to be alone on the floor.

"Keep watch." Sherlock muttered. He produced a lockpick kit and set to work on the door.

"Sherlock," John glanced up and down the hallway. "This really seems like a bad idea. The fact that you have to _pick the lock_ says as much."

"Lestrade won't care."

"It's not Lestrade I'm worried about." John said. The door clicked and Sherlock went in. John rolled his eyes, his heart racing for the second time in 24 hours. By the glow of the computer screen, John could see Sherlock pause for a moment, then type something into the machine.

"Ha!" He barked. "First try. He didn't even _try_ to make the password difficult."

John looked up and down the hall, unable to share his flatmate's joy.

Sherlock clicked a few more things, accessing the database and pushing the memory stick into the port. No sooner had he done so than John heard voices at the end of the hall.

"Sherlock." He whispered. The detective went still and looked up.

"Someone's coming!" John jumped into the office and closed the door. "Turn the computer off! They'll see the light." John hissed.

"I can't. It's running…" Sherlock made a face and glanced around, then draped his coat over the monitor to hide the glow. The voices approached and stopped outside the door. Both men exchanged a horrified look when keys scraped in the lock. John glanced around. There was nowhere to go. No way to make a quick exit, no furniture to hide behind. Hopefully it was just Lestrade, or they would be in big trouble.

His hopes were dashed when a security guard pushed open the door and flipped on the light, blinking at the sight.

"Who the hell are you?" He asked. He reached for his belt, pushing a button on a little device clipped to it. Summoning back up, no doubt.

Sherlock began to speak. "We're working with Les‒"

"Not you, slave!" The guard sneered at the leash dangling from Sherlock's neck. "You'll shut up if you know what's good for you."

Sherlock shut his mouth and John opened his. "We're working with DI Lestrade on the Roylott case and we needed to get in his office for…something."

"For what? Why isn't he here if it was so important you had to show up in the middle of the bleeding night to do it?"

"He sent us instead." John said. It wasn't working. He could tell by the man's expression that he was calling their lie even before he finished speaking. To be honest, it hadn't been a very good lie, but a lazier security guard would have bought it. Some soldiers showed up behind him then, cuffs out and ready.

"Take care of them." The guard said. "I'm calling Gregson."

* * *

 

Ten minutes later found Sherlock stripped down and cuffed, on his knees and tied to the concrete cell floor by a chain around his neck. His cuffed wrists were bolted to the floor as well, forcing him down in the 'submit' position‒head down and back and arse up. He had no gag, at least, since he'd been quiet and cooperative. Though he wasn't told to, the soldier who'd brought him down here had lashed his back twice with a strap. The marks still burned and stung. Between his hands and his collar, he was almost immobile. The sudden, brutal reminder of his slave status made him tense and worried. John had been amazingly good to him, so much so that he'd almost forgotten what it was like‒what is was _really_ like for him now. A slave, beaten and chained like a dog. Not good. John would probably say this was basically a textbook definition of 'a bit not good.' In trouble with the police in the middle of the night‒again. A few years ago getting caught breaking and entering would be annoying and he'd probabyl face a fine or a few hours in the cells, but now…with the power The Republic and the police had and the utter lack of rights Sherlock and all slaves had…visions of Republic regime discipline danced in his head. If he was very lucky, he would just spend a night or two tied like this. If he was unlucky…Sherlock swallowed the sickness growing in his belly. They would take it all from him. Everything. His cases. His flat. John. He took a deep shaky breath. That couldn't happen. He didn't know how he could possibly prevent it, but he couldn't fathom it happening. He wasn't sure he could survive another owner like Moran. He was glad he was wearing his stupid collar. The officers were so tediously picky about wearing the damned things and any little bit would help. He knew breaking into Scotland Yard would be risky, and this was the result of taking that risk. Hopefully they could at least find out who the John Doe on the ring was.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, listening to the closed door for anyone approaching. The best he could hope for was that he'd be sent home tonight with John. The worst scenario would be the mines. He doubted he'd be put straight to death. It's not like he'd killed someone or had been violent. He shifted and gooseflesh rose over his thighs and belly. It was cold in here and he raised his eyes. John was up there somewhere and he hoped the doctor could negotiate something good…

"It was for a case, don't you see!?" John yelled at Chief Gregson, Lestrade's boss. They were crowded in Lestrade's office, all of them grouchy and tired.

"Case or no, you broke into Scotland Yard, then lied about it. What kind of moron breaks into a police station?!"

Gregson made a good point, one John couldn't argue with. He didn't have much to defend himself with here. No matter how the case was spun, it always concluded with them having broken into the office. Whether or not their reasoning was sound was completely void.

"And you!" Gregson turned to a wrong-footed Greg Lestrade, standing off to the side with his arms folded over his chest, looking like he wished he was anywhere but in this office. "What the hell were you thinking?"

“Well he _is_ a detective—” Lestrade said.

“No he’s not—he’s a bloody amateur! _You’re_ supposed to be the detective!”

Lestrade looked down, struggling for something to say and John genuinely did feel bad for him.

“Our solve rate has tripled since he‒ _they‒_ have been working with me—” Lestrade was cut off.

“He’s a civilian," Gregson pointed at John. " _and_ you're allowing his slave on a scene—which in case you didn’t realize—bringing them on crime scenes is not only illegal, but dangerous! Were you ever planning on saying anything to anyone?”

“No harm has been done.” Lestrade said quietly. Gregson didn't seem to care.

“Except for the fact that you knowingly broke laws and endangered a civilian! You’re a bloody idiot, Lestrade!”

John was unaware the Chief didn't know they were helping out on the Roylott case. He was also _extremely_ glad that Greg didn't tell their secret. If Gregson knew they were running an illegal business, John didn't know _what_ would happen, only that it would make the whole situation worse. Greg didn't say anything and the Chief turned back to John, nearly vibrating with rage. "Both you and your slave are going to the post‒let that be a lesson for each of you."

John's heart fell somewhere in the vicinity of his feet and his eyes bugged out in shock. The post? _Both_ of them?

"Sir." Lestrade snapped his head up. "The whipping post? That seems harsh."

"They broke in and hacked into a database filled with sensitive confidential information!" Gregson roared. "I should formally propose _the mines_ for this! The post is lettin' them off _easy_!"

"Isn't there a fee or something I could pay instead?" John pressed in a weak voice. A _whipping,_ Christ…

"No, there's not. And it'll be up to The Republic to decide whether or not you get to keep your boy after they're done with you!" Gregson signaled to the soldier outside the door. He came in and stood at attention. "Take him to the cells," he waved, "get him out of my sight."

John gave Lestrade a pleading glance before the soldier's heavy hand dropped on his shoulder and he was brought away, lead down into the bowels of the Yard. The soldier unlocked a cell and threw John inside, slamming it closed after him. The first thing John noticed was the chill and damp in the air, the second was that Sherlock was in here too, naked and hunched forward, his face inches from the floor.

"Jesus." John muttered. He hurried forward and crouched down beside his friend, sliding out of his black coat.

"Joining me?" Sherlock said, tilting his head as far he could to look John in the eye.

"These bastards." John threw the coat over Sherlock's back, covering up his modesty and the lash marks. He lay on the icy, dusty floor, curled beside the detective so he could see his face.

"John, get up on the bench‒no point in both of us being on the floor."

"I'm not sitting up there while you're tied to the ground like an animal."

Sherlock let out a huff but didn't argue anymore.

"You hurt?" John asked. "Besides those strap marks on your back?"

"No. Just my pride."

"You don't deserve this, you know. No one does." John slid his hand forward, slipping his fingers over Sherlock's. He was icy. He half expected the man to pull away. He didn't though, and he rested his thumb over the back of John's warm hand. "It's bullocks, all of this, got it? They have no right to treat you like this."

John continued his litany of soothing words, pleased to see the detective inch by inch start to relax under his black jacket. He wasn't sure how much time passed, but a key was soon scratching into the lock. John leaped up, feet planted and hands curled in fists. No one was going to hurt Sherlock without getting through him first, whipping post be damned.

Lestrade pushed open the door and, upon seeing John, stayed in the doorway. He held up a key and tossed it to the doctor, who caught it in his left hand and crouched to unlock Sherlock.

"What did he say?" John said. Greg handed over the bag of Sherlock's clothes.

"The post for both of you."

"You couldn't get it rescinded?" Sherlock growled, tugging on pants and trousers.

"Sherlock," Greg sounded seriously annoyed, "you withheld evidence, broke into my office, hacked into Scotland Yard, and accessed some extremely sensitive information!"

"I didn't withhold evidence." Sherlock groused. He buttoned the last button on his shirt and smoothed his hands over the front.

Greg crossed his arms. "You went off on your own to collect evidence data from the engagement ring and didn't come to one of us when you found John Doe's prints. That's withholding evidence."

"See? Anderson _is_ incompetent," Sherlock made a face. "I would have texted you. Eventually."

"Too little too late." Greg snapped. John felt bad for him. This was the second time Greg had been woken up in the middle of the night to come deal with Sherlock and John knew he would be just about as cheerful if he was in the DI's shoes.

"Thanks, Greg." He said. Both men looked at him. "For trying." John clarified. "Gregson was pretty upset."

"You're welcome. He wanted the mines, you know. I dissuaded him from that but the post seems pretty certain and he was still on the fence about letting you two stay together."

"Your boss is a moron." Sherlock hissed, yanking his coat up around his shoulders.

"Yeah, well, he also didn't know you've been working on this case at all." He let out a little sigh and John was pretty certain Gregson had yelled at him. A lot.

"Thanks for everything, Greg." John put a hand on his shoulder and the DI nodded. "What do we do now?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Go home. You'll get more information about your sentence in the mail. And I'd like to ask, as a personal favor, for both of you to _not_ get in trouble on the way home."


	12. Murder, He Wrote

Sherlock and John banged into 221B twenty minutes later. John had no idea what time it was. Late. It was dark out when they had left and it still was now. He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water from the tap, gulping it down. He put the glass on the counter and looked at his watch. Nearly three. He paced into the sitting room, hands scrubbing through hair. God, the _whipping post_ ‒he couldn't get over it. He was too jittery to sleep, keyed up from the break in and then seeing Sherlock treated so brutally in the jail cell. Coffee. Coffee would be good. He went to the kitchen, feeling rattled, and filled the machine with grounds, turning it on.

"Anxious?" Sherlock asked. He was on the sofa in repose, his hands steepled and his eyes closed.

"How are you _not_?" John asked.

"Worry is useless."

"Sherlock, we're going to get _whipped_ in the next few days. I think I'm entitled to be a little nervous about it." He poured two mugs and added two sugars to Sherlock's, splashing some milk and sugar into his own. He set the one mug down beside his flatmate and went to his computer. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be some law or loophole or something that said army vets and their slaves couldn't get beaten. He clicked onto the Internet and saw the paper with Alex Bailey's handwriting on it beside the computer. Oh yeah…that reminded him…he jotted off a fast email to Mike, asking him to verify the Vilnius medical conference, then set off searching for the loophole that he knew had to be there.

He searched until the light in the flat changed, going from dark to grey to yellow sunlight, and John sighed in defeat. The sites, limited as they were, yielded nothing. No story about someone who'd managed to get out of the firing line. No exceptions regarding war vets.

"Fuck…" John leaned all the way back in his chair, his head hanging as he stared at the ceiling. "Could this get any worse?" He meant it rhetorically and certainly didn't expect the answer Sherlock gave him.

"You have a job interview later today." His voice was smooth and tired.

"What?!" John snapped his head up.

"Mm. At the surgery up the road. I estimate a 96.4 percent chance you'll get the position, assuming you don't say anything _too_ stupid."

"Sherlock." John blinked a few times, letting that sink in. "I can't have an interview today."

"Why not?"

"Wh‒do you not remember what we just got sentenced to?"

"How does an appointment with the whipping post mean you can't have your interview at nine am?"

"Nine!?" John looked at the clock again. "That's four hours away!"

"Shall I call and cancel?"

"Well, no."

Sherlock grinned.

"When were you planning on telling me about this?"

"Right now. Apparently."

Scrubbing his hands through his hair again, John sighed and printed out his CV.

* * *

 

Three and a half hours later, John was showered, caffeinated, and adjusting his tie in the mirror. He glanced over his reflection and stifled a yawn. He tried to power nap, and just get a solid forty minutes in, but he hadn't slept terribly well. The previous short and also endless night and the promise of the post in Piccadilly had kept him in a fitful doze. At least, he assumed it was a promise. A declaration from the Chief of the Yard seemed pretty set in stone, but maybe not? John went down the steps and into the kitchen. He opened up one of the two coffee canisters on the counter‒nope this one contained toes nested in a white bed of salt. He closed it, pushed it aside, and grabbed the other one, opening it up. Fresh, heady dark grounds greeted him and John poured some into the coffee machine, flipping it on. One more cup wouldn't be a bad idea. He popped a couple pills to settle his stomach too. John grabbed his phone and made sure he had his CV tucked inside his leather messenger bag, then sent a quick text to Lestrade.

_Hey Greg, do you know any way out of this whipping? JW_

There was no response while John was walking to the clinic, or directly after when he turned his phone back on post-interview. There _was_ one less thing on his mind after the interview though, as he and Sarah had flirted and smiled and she had offered him the position just ten minutes after they sat down to talk. One good thing to happen this week anyway.

_Sorry, I know you're probably really busy, but any info would be appreciated. JW_

John paused, his thumb raised over the 'send' button. Did it sound too pushy? He decided no, it didn't, since the punishment was to take place very soon. He put his phone away and went home, temporarily buoyed by the happiness of his new job yet still worried. He really hoped there was something someone could do.

Despite a half dozen texts and a couple phone calls, Lestrade failed to contact John.

"Why is he not responding?" John said, glancing at his phone for the fifteenth time as he wandered agitatedly in and out of the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting quietly at his microscope. "It's like he's avoiding me‒Oh God."

Sherlock adjusted the slide. He'd been acting supremely unconcerned about this whole thing while meanwhile John felt worried enough for five people.

"What if he's the one to do the actual deed?" John said.

Sherlock looked up at him.

"What if Lestrade is actually going to be the one up there to _do_ it? To, to wield the whip?" John scrubbed his fingers over his scalp, then said, more to himself, "fucking hell, I can't believe this is happening…"

"No he won't." Sherlock said. "The Republic has graciously provided their own people for that sort of thing."

John didn't feel relieved. He huffed out a short breath as Sherlock looked back at the slide. "I'd take it for both of us if I could..." John muttered.

"What?" Sherlock looked up, a look of extreme confusion combined with his trademark 'you're an idiot' expression. "How could you say something so stupid?"

"It's not that stupid." John said.

"John, this isn't a schoolchild's punishment. You've seen them on television‒why on earth would you willingly agree to endure something like that in someone else's stead?" Sherlock's voice was heated with anger and there was an edge of desperate confusion running through it as well.

"Because I care about you, you daft moron, and I hate seeing you in pain!"

Sherlock deflated and sank back onto the stool. "Oh." He said.

"Yeah, 'oh.'" John rolled his eyes. Sherlock didn't say another word as he calmly went back to his slide. John left the kitchen and grabbed his laptop, heading up to his room. He was exhausted and it looked like both of them needed a little space to process this.

* * *

 

Sherlock paced in his bedroom the next morning, impeccably dressed in one of his suits. What the ever loving hell had John been thinking? Why? Why on earth had the idea to take his beating even popped into his head? Sherlock snatched his phone off the bed and sent a text to his brother.

_Get it rescinded. SH_

Mycroft would know what he was talking about. He had always been a nosy git and no doubt he already knew all about the sentence.

His phone chimed. _This is beyond my scope, dear brother. -MH_

_What do you mean!? Make it go away! SH_

_Sherlock. Stop texting me, I'm busy. There's nothing I can do. Good day. MH_

Sherlock growled and flung the phone back on the bed. "Useless fucking prat."

"Sherlock?" John knocked tentatively on the door.

"What!"

"Did you ask Mycroft? Maybe he could do something."

Sherlock took two long strides and wrenched the door open.

"Mycroft is about as useful as dung flavored sweets."

John smirked. "Oh. That's too bad."

Sherlock crossed his arms moodily.

"Is," John paused, "is there anything I can do about this? Anything to make it easier for you? Is there some kind of 'owner's clause' or something that would let me keep you safe?"

"Owner's clause?" Sherlock repeated blankly.

"I don't know‒an addendum or a law that says I as your owner can refuse to allow you to get whipped? What about a medical condition? Would they make an exception for that? I'm not above lying to these bastards…"

Sherlock couldn't help the sad smile that crossed his lips. John was still, even after all this time, laboring under the idea that these people operated under a logical system of fair government. A kind of twisted democracy that would allow for slavery but also fairness for all.

"I can't just let them whip you." John said. He didn't mean to make his voice sound as desperate as it had.

"It's not up to you, John." Sherlock said. "This is reality now. I've been whipped before, I know what to expect." He muttered. "Now if you'll excuse me." He looked pointedly past the doctor and John stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to exit his room. He followed, watching him slide his coat on.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." Sherlock snapped. "I'm sick of your questions." With that, Sherlock left the flat in a swirl of coat.

John spent his afternoon on the phone trying to get someone on the line who could make the sentence go away. He got rerouted several times, spoke to people that were located he was sure in at least four different countries, got hung up on twice, and eventually, after three hours on the phone, got sent back to the original person he spoke to when he first dialed while the sun was still up. John hung up in disgust. He hadn’t thought the phone call would really help, but it was worth a shot. Sherlock wasn't back yet and John sent him a text.

_Are you coming back tonight? Stay safe. JW_

He scrolled through his phone and saw that Lestrade had never responded either. What the hell. He knew that Greg answered his phone regularly, as he often contacted Sherlock for cases. John remembered then that Greg had given him his card when they first met. He rummaged through his wallet until he found it‒a little worn on the edges‒and looked at the home address scrawled in blue ink on the back. Should he just go over there? It was possible that Greg would know something about getting out of this mess. Maybe. Chief Gregson had made it clear that he wasn't going to be cancel the sentence for any reason and that phone call had proved to be a pointless colossal waste of time. Lestrade seemed to have a knack when it came to Sherlock‒who still hadn't responded either, thanks very much. John let out a loud frustrated sigh and seriously debated about throwing his mobile against the damned wall. And then maybe going to the pub with Mike and getting pissed stupid until the day of the sentence. Wouldn't that be nice and easy? Being drunk would probably help ease the pain. He hoped Sherlock wasn't doing something dumb and that he was simply out trapping sewer rats or inventing more algorithms to predict robberies. Or whatever it was he did when he went out. John pocketed his phone and grabbed his jacket, heading for Lestrade's.

* * *

 

Greg was just doing the washing from dinner (sparse as it was. Pizza didn't make many dirty dishes) when there was a knock on his door. Who the hell could that be? He reasoned quickly that if it was an emergency from work they would call. And Greg wasn't too proud to admit that he had been ignoring his phone for most of the day. Well, ignoring John for most of the day. It wasn't the most mature behavior, but he had nothing good to tell John and he wasn't in the mood to be snarked at by Sherlock _and_ the good doctor for Gregson's rash behavior. Greg shut off the water and dried his hands, moving for the door. A look through the peephole had him cursing softly.

"John." He unlocked the door and pulled it open, trying to sound cheerful and surprised.

"Hey Greg. Sorry to bother you….can I come in?"

Greg stepped aside and John entered, glancing around the small, semi-tidy flat. "Your phone working?" He asked, trying to not sound snippy.

"Sorry, John," Greg said, cutting right to the chase. "There's nothing I can do."

John felt his heart sag into his diaphragm. "Nothing?"

"No." Greg hesitated. "You want a beer or something?"

"Why not."

They were soon on Greg's old overstuffed sofa.

"I asked Gregson if I could pay a fee, I called a phone number I found on a website‒that was a clusterfuck‒Sherlock even texted Mycroft."

"I'm sorry, John." Greg said. He meant it too. John didn’t deserve to deal with this.

"Not your fault. We _did_ break into your office."

"Yeah, that was…"

"Idiotic?" John suggested. "Stupid? Moronic?"

"A bit."

"He didn't want to wait. I told him we should wait."

John looked so miserable about it, picking at the beer label.

"Hey, honestly? This would have happened." Greg said. "Sooner or later he would have been sentenced to the pillory. He's just too…" He paused, searching for the right word.

"…much of a rule-breaking dick?" John supplied.

Greg acquiesced with a tilt of his beer and drank.

"He's been beaten up too much. He still has bruises from when I first _met_ him. Some of 'em are taking forever to fade. I _hate_ that they can just tie him up and whip him."

Greg nodded. "I know. And I wish there was a happy answer I could give you, John. But the truth of it is that this country‒most countries‒aren't functioning as they used to and they probably never will again unless we all manage to gang up and fight back. And there's an excellent chance of that not happening in our lifetimes."

* * *

 

Sherlock returned that evening and John let out a relieved breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The streets weren't safe now, especially at night.

"Is there tea?" He asked, hanging his coat and grabbing his phone out of a pocket.

"I'll make some." John save his drafted blog post and got up as Sherlock flumped into the chair, already texting Helen.

_My apologies for the hiatus. Any new info? –SH_

Her reply was swift. _No…my stepfather's been acting strange, though, Mr. Holmes. --HR_

_Strange how? –SH_

_He’s been muttering to himself and drinking more these past few days. It sounded like he was talking to my dead mother. –HR_

Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair. _Do you feel unsafe there? Do you think he may try to murder you? –SH_

_I don't know. –HR_

Sherlock's fingers flew over his keyboard. _We'll come. John and I will stay at your home tonight. --SH_

_You don't have to do that! I don't want to inconvenience you. --H_

_You're not. We'll be by at ten. Your room is on the second floor, correct? North side, above the rose trellis? --SH_

_Mr. Holmes, really. You don't need to be here. I, I think he's leaving now, actually. I'll be fine. ‒H_

Sherlock frowned at the text, his murder sense tingling.

_Don't be silly. We'll be there at ten pm. --SH_

Sherlock put his phone down and looked over at John, who was busily pouring tea, unaware of Helen's plight. He unfolded himself out of the chair and went to the desk, picking up the paper that had Alex's family info on it. John had actually been fruitful. There were some notes scribbled beside a few names, then a female name circled. A mother or sibling. He was making progress.

"How much of Alex Bailey's kin were you able to find?" Sherlock asked.

"I found her sister. I contacted her, told her Alex was looking for them." John came back into the sitting room and placed two mugs on the desk. "She was so thrilled, Sherlock, you should have seen‒ "

"Yes, yes, fine‒what a happy ending, brings a tear to your eye‒now go get your jacket!" Sherlock whirled John around and pushed him in the direction of his hanging black jacket.

"Why‒what are we doing?"

"Spending the night at the Roylott home." Sherlock rubbed his hands together in a way reminiscent of a dastard villain. "Grab a torch too, John." He smiled. "There may be another murder tonight."

 


	13. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the more violent chapters. Nothing unexpected happens though, I should think. There's also a brief mention of suicide.

Helen Roylott sat perched on the edge of the ottoman in front of the armchair in her bedroom, listening to her father rant and rave downstairs, half drunk with anger. It was stupid of her to stay here. She should have gone back to Cambridge when she had the chance, or stayed at a hotel, and now she was bothering that detective slave and his friend. She certainly hadn't meant for them to come and spend the night. She couldn’t understand why Sherlock even wanted to spend the night. Protection? That was sweet, but wouldn't an officer have made more sense? He wouldn't be able to get in without her father knowing, and‒

A sharp knock on the glass window pane made her startle, and to her supreme confusion, Sherlock's head was floating outside her window, or rather, he was balanced precariously on something. She got up and opened the window.

"Mr. Holmes? What are you doing?"

"I told you we'd be here at ten." A glance at the clock revealed it to be 9:58.

"Where's Dr. Watson?" She asked.

"Down here!" An angry voice sounded from the vicinity of Sherlock's feet. Sherlock swayed dangerously.

"Hold still, John!" He hissed.

Helen grabbed Sherlock's hand and hauled him up through the window. With some difficulty, a few broken squares on the rose trellis, and some colorful swear words that made even Sherlock blink, they managed to haul John in off the trellis as well and the trio were soon sprawled in the bedroom, panting.

Roylott let out a particularly loud growl downstairs.

"Any chance he heard?" Sherlock asked.

"No way."

"Excellent." Sherlock said. He put a hand out and helped John to his feet.

"You alright?"

"Fine." He groused. "Sherlock," He picked a thorn out of his hair, "what are we doing here?"

"We're spending the night. Roylott may try to kill Helen, and I want to see how he does it."

"And if he tries," John said quickly, "we will stop him." He cast a glance at a wide-eyed Helen, then back to Sherlock. "Yes?" He prompted.

"Oh." This seemed to occur to Sherlock as an afterthought. "Yes of course." He retreated to the corner and curled on the chair, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes and falling silent. Helen frowned, then looked at John for confirmation.

"He's fine." John assured her. "Um, do you mind us being here?"

"No, not at all. It's odd, but if it'll help Mr. Holmes solve Julia's murder…"

Helen went to bed and though she asked, John insisted she turn off the light. The night wore on, and Roylott eventually quieted. Sherlock stood up after a time and went to the window and John took the chair, tired but also a little excited.

“John.” Sherlock was staring out the window, the curtains partly drawn as he gazed into the night. The white-blue moonlight shed across his face, throwing his profile into sharp relief and dusting silver across his dark coat collar. “Do you remember the day you brought me to your flat?”

John nodded, remembering all too well. Sherlock had been a nervous, malnourished, flea-infested mess, unable to look him in the eye. It had been heartbreaking.

Sherlock licked his lips. “I just wanted to say—thank you.” He spoke quietly, staring out the window the whole time. “I had been planning on taking my life that night if Stamford hadn’t shown up to collect me.”

John blinked, shocked. Stamford probably wouldn’t have gone to the auction house at all had John not bumped into him and then expressed a ghoulish interest in tagging along. Mike hadn’t wanted a slave. John wasn't going to say that though.

“You’re welcome.” John said simply, then, “it goes both ways, you know.”

Sherlock spared him half a moment’s attention from the window.

“It wasn’t fun coming home to that crap flat every night. I had no one and nothing save a dodgy leg and a head of bad memories. Not much of a life. I figured, why bother?”

There was a beat of comfortable silence, interrupted by a _creak_ on the stairs. They exchanged a glance and Sherlock tiptoed away from the window, melting into the shadows. The chair was obscured by Helen's open closet door and John held his breath as the _creak_ happened again, louder. Footsteps shuffled by outside the room, accompanied by heavy breathing. He moved on and the creaking faded. John and Sherlock both relaxed.

All of a sudden, a shadow appeared under the door and a long, skinny serpent crept in across the hardwood floor. Sherlock held out his hand and John slapped the torch into it. Sherlock shone it down at the slithering reptile and it froze. It was a coral snake, the very same kind that had killed Julia Roylott. In the white light thrown by the torch, John saw Sherlock grin.

"Ha!" He leaped towards the door and the snake, making John blurt out a panicked "Sherlock!"

Helen woke up and Sherlock wrenched the door open, tackling the crouching figure in the hall.

"What's going on?" Helen sat up. "What do you need me to do?"

John had two choices‒help Sherlock, who was wrestling with the bad guy, or secure the poisonous snake who was roaming free. He decided to go with the latter. He only needed a few seconds, and Sherlock had the element of surprise on his side.

"Give me your pillowcase." John commanded. She didn't question or argue, and when she flung him the case, John quickly threw it on the snake, immobilizing the head and folding it into the fabric, tying it off. For the first time he was grateful there had been so many snakes in Afghanistan. That had only taken seconds. He ran into the hall and relaxed. Sherlock had the suspect more than subdued. In fact he was unconscious, laying on his belly on the floor while Sherlock triumphantly texted Lestrade.

John was surprised to see it wasn't Paul Roylott lying there, but,

"Michael?" Helen blinked at the prone figure.

"Your fiancé?" John guessed.

She nodded, her eyes welling up.

"Fiancé!" Sherlock growled, his voice half ecstatic and half irritated. "It all points to Paul Roylott and then it turns out to be the fiancé‒no doubt Paul was on the chopping block next. This one probably wanted to get his hands on that annuity." Sherlock said, slipping his phone in his pocket. "I knew I was rusty, but this case was excellent practice--oh Helen I should thank you."

"Sherlock!" John snapped, pulling a sobbing Helen into his arms. The detective's face fell at the sight of her tears and he blinked at John, the picture of innocence.

" _Timing."_

* * *

 

"How the hell did you know it was going to be tonight?" Lestrade asked as the officers put Michael in cuffs.

"That was Helen's doing." Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes. The smug smirk hadn't left his face from the moment Helen started sobbing until now, "she called us."

"There really wasn’t any time to call you, Greg." John added. "Coppers pulling up to the house would have alerted him and then he never would have even tried to murder Helen."

Greg looked annoyed.

"But," John said, "I do have some good news…" He produced the list of Alex's family members. "Alex has a sister who is very keen on helping her get home."

"Hell, John. You actually found someone?" Greg tucked the page in his pocket.

John shrugged. "It wasn't too hard. The clues were out there, I just had to follow them."

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, beaming like a proud parent.

"You know that technically Gregson said you're not supposed to work on cases anymore, right?" Lestrade said.

This made Sherlock's grin fade. "So?" He growled.

"So, you're not getting any credit for this one." Greg looked at John. "That goes for the blog too. If he finds out, he'll probably try to send you both to the Alps to mine." Both men sobered at that idea. Greg nodded. "Exactly, so keep quiet on this."

* * *

 

John and Sherlock took the Tube home, choosing to stand and hold the poles instead of sitting in one of the plentiful free seats. John and Sarah (who kept late hours) were texting back and forth about his upcoming work shifts. John had one elbow hooked around a silver pole as he typed with his thumbs. Sherlock was standing directly behind him, one gloved hand grasping the same pole as he read the texts over John's shoulder. John didn't care. He was fine with Sherlock standing so close, so open behind him. He was vaguely startled to realize that he couldn’t even imagine his post-military life without the detective. What would he have done without Sherlock? He wasn't kidding back in Helen's room when he said he'd wondered what kind of life he was destined to lead and if it was worth it. He wondered if this new world would have gotten the better of him. It probably would have sooner rather than later. Sherlock had re-awakened him and thrown color back into his life in bright joyous splashes of insanity. Capturing murderers, stealing from the police, a new flat, a new job, even the middle-of-the-night phone calls from irritated cops had their own weird appeal. It felt good to be wanted and needed and even better, he was able to save Sherlock from a life of torturous labor and abuse.

It looked like the whipping post was going to happen no matter what.

He and Sarah settled on a time and John flicked through some other messages, seeing if by some miracle Lestrade may have found a way to eliminate Sherlock's sentence. Nothing. He put his phone away.

"You asked Lestrade about the sentence?" Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah. Mycroft can't help and there's no one else." He looked up at his flatmate, a wild thought entering his head. "Mrs. Hudson doesn't have connections in the mafia or anything, does she?"

Sherlock smirked. "Nothing that could help with this." He didn't elaborate, but he did continue to smirk as if remembering something both funny and awesome. John opened his mouth to ask, but then let it be. It was too early in the morning and truth be told, there wasn't much time left until the soldiers came to take them away.

"Stop worrying, John." Sherlock said when they arrived back in the flat. "There's nothing you can do. Do you honestly think I haven't thought of every possibility that would eliminate this wretched sentence?"

"But you're being so…blasé about it! Aren't you worried?"

Sherlock paused, his hands on the countertop, and turned around. "Am I worried about the flesh being stripped from my back? Being on display? Being in an unbearably indescribable amount of pain? Worry is useless, John. The Republic is in charge now. I suggest you channel your worry into getting us some codeine and ice packs."

He yawned then, sagging on himself and grabbed the bread and put a slice in the toaster. This time John couldn't keep the shock off his face.

"You're actually going to make yourself food and eat it?" His tone was snippy, but he hated feeling so helpless.

"Shutup." He groused. The toaster popped and Sherlock smeared some jam on the bread."The case is complete and my body requires fuel and rest. In that order." He chomped off a crusty corner.

* * *

 

Sherlock had been right about the case. Michael, Helen's fiancé, knew about the annuity and wanted in on it. He'd confessed that he had killed Julia and also planned to kill Helen and her stepfather. Him being Helen's fiancé would secure his inheritance. John thought it was disgusting, the way people still treated each other in this wretched world, but to Sherlock it had simply been another notch in the bedpost so to speak. Practice.

The next few days flew by as John worked long shifts at the surgery. Between seeing patients and prescribing pills, he also took Sherlock's advice and grimly squirreled away supplies for after the beating. Painkillers and bandages and a wide, flat compress about the size of a commercial heating pad that could be frozen and laid across a sore back. He couldn't do anything about the sentence, but he could throw himself into their aftercare with a vengeance.

The soldiers arrived at noon the next day, big burly guys with cuffs and guns. They didn't care that the detectives each popped a codeine pill before accepting the handcuffs around their wrists.

"Are these really necessary?" John asked.

"Yes." The soldier told him.

Sherlock was silent in the car, sitting peaceful and watching out the window with his hands tethered in his lap like he did this everyday. John, by contrast, forced himself to not fidget and squirm like a five year old in a suit and tie. He hoped that there wouldn't be much of a crowd. Piccadilly was busy on a slow day, but a day like today? With slaves and skin on view and a camera crew present, who knew what would happen. He'd seen bits and pieces of the televised broadcasts, and there were always _some_ people present and gathered to watch. Not quite spread-a-blanket-and-bring-a-deckchair watching, but watching enough. As the car rounded a bend, John's mouth fell open. Dozens, if not hundreds of people were gathered.

"Why the fuck are there so many people?" He didn't mean to curse (especially in front of authority figures. He really needed to work on not disrespecting people who could hurt them).

"Protesters." A soldier said, driving around to avoid the mass of people. "PFFS is here." John watched out the window as people massed together holding signs with the words, _free slaves now!_ and _Get out of our home!_ and the like scrawled in big letters. There was yelling and lots of angry faces. The riot police were stationed and there were mounted police everywhere. John smirked faintly, remembering his and Sherlock's evening gallop, then sobered. This would be humiliating and painful. Sherlock sat up a little straighter in his seat, glancing around at the heaving crowd before looking at John. They exchanged a mutual worried expression and John hoped it wouldn't get violent. The people looked riled.

The soldier drove them to an alley tucked away from interested eyes and the back door was yanked open. Hands belonging to big, brawny male soldiers grabbed them and tugged him out of the car.

There was a line of four men and women, two were collared slaves, the other two‒who knew? were standing quietly and chained together at the ankles and wrists. A couple looked up as Sherlock and John were was tied onto the end. They all looked gaunt and malnourished‒not unlike Sherlock had when John first brought him home all those weeks ago. They were obviously the healthiest, wearing clean clothing and having washed hair and sporting no visible bruises.

"I'd offer advice, but there's nothing I can say that will make this hurt less." Sherlock murmured. "You've been shot, you know the caliber of pain we're dealing with here. The medical supplies are at home and I suggest you ask the guard for something to bite on."

John lifted his head, holding himself proud. The Republic didn't own him. These might be their rules and laws that he was following, but they weren't him. He nodded in recognition of Sherlock's tips.

"If it's any slight consolation," Sherlock said, "I'm glad to not be alone. Not like last time."

John turned and looked at his friend. He could see the fear in his eyes but also the strength there, warmed by John's close proximity. Not for the first time he was struck by how alone Sherlock had been before they met. How alone he had been too.

"Well," John said, "if we must find a bright side‒at the very least we'll probably get a free dinner out of Mrs. Hudson for this."

Sherlock smirked and the line shuffled forward. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, finding that place in his head where he could try to dull the pain. It was a useful room, but it was always an ever-changing maze that lead to the door. The noise of the riled crowd intensified as the prisoners were lead out of the shelter of the alley and into the open. Yelling echoed around the junction, the breeze carrying curses on The Republic. Sherlock heard glass break and saw the remains of a brown beer bottle skitter across the pavement. The riot officers and horse police were moving amongst the crowd but it didn't look like they had nearly enough control.

The manacled group ascended a staircase that lead to a dais and the post. The dais was built around what used to be the Shaftesbury fountain. The top few feet of the fountain were bedecked with chains and now served as the actual whipping post that people were fastened too. The statue of Eros (or Anteros. He had deleted _that_ ages ago) was gone. Several of The Republic's scariest soldiers were in full riot gear and stationed up here, clearly present to keep the crowd in place moreso than the slaves. Sherlock got his first real look at the spectators. The whole of Piccadilly was filled. He glanced up, squinting against the bright white-grey cloud sky to the huge screens surrounding the streets. A few of them showed the same crowd he was in, and if he looked hard enough, he could see their own figures. A live feed then. Not surprising. They had made the news, as several other screens showed Republic anchors commenting on the footage being shot in front of his very eyes. A helicopter thundered into view and Sherlock definitely felt uneasy. This wasn't usual. There were too many people and the air felt tight like a violin string ready to snap. He wondered vaguely if Lestrade was in the throng. John glanced back at Sherlock, a grim look on his face.

The first person in the line, a man in his twenties, was unchained and brought forward to the tall concrete post. His shirt was yanked off and he was cuffed quickly in place. He didn't fight, and looked pretty ready to either wet himself or cry. The crowd's voice rose as one in anger and Sherlock took a deep breath when someone‒dressed in a dark green uniform‒the designated 'beater,' unfurled a bullwhip. Jesus that looked terrifyingly painful. A tiny little irrational part of him had hoped that maybe they would just use a slender switch or even a cane or anything that wasn't an honest to hell _whip_. It was stupid to have even thought that. He knew exactly how The Republic operated.

The whip was raised and the first lash hit, fast and strong. The guy jerked in his restraints and the gathered crowd roared. Food and even a few shoes were flung up on the dais. That same nervous irrational part of Sherlock wondered almost hysterically if they, the slaves, were safe‒the thought made him laugh. Was he safer up here, 'protected' by soldiers who wanted to beat him, or down there in the crowds who wanted The Republic gone at any cost and didn't look like they cared who they killed in the process? There was no 'safe' anymore. Anywhere, so long as he was beside John, was the safest place he could think of.

The chained guy screamed as the final lash fell, cracking through the hostile air. He was unchained‒he was bleeding, just a little bit near his shoulder, and pulled away. The second victim, a woman, was up next. Sherlock looked away.

All too soon, the man in front of them (who looked strung out and half dead even before he was beaten) was dragged off the dais and John was shoved forward. He restrained himself from fighting back, even when they were ripping the shirt from his back. The crowd was getting steadily more violent. A few skirmishes had broken out on the fringes of the mob, quickly squashed by the soldiers. A streaking comet of tear gas flew through the air and Sherlock took a deep breath, focusing on John and forcing himself to not tremble with whip-induced nerves and fear of the crowd. John spoke briefly to the guard and a knotted rag was shoved between his teeth. Something to bite on. His hands were chained and Sherlock wanted to kill them all for hurting him, hurting John, and making them all suffer this way.

The whip rose high and then snapped across John's smooth back, leaving a dark pink stain from hip to rib. Sherlock clenched his teeth and his fists, feeling painfully weak and helpless as the whip rose and fell again. He wanted to look away, but felt it somehow wouldn't be fair. He watched his friend take seven whip strokes in stoic silence. Sherlock wished he could be so brave.

It ended, finally, and John was unchained. The rag was pulled from his mouth and he was brought off the dais. He glanced back, hazy fear in his eyes. "No, Sherlock‒" He reached back but was pushed forward. Away from him.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He could endure this. He had the quiet peace of Baker Street waiting. He could lick his wounds and heal without fear of torment. The chains he was bound with were still warm from John and Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling sick.

The pain was more or less how he remembered. Sharp and red. He grit his teeth, grabbed the chain tying his manacles in clenched fists, and took all seven burning, bone throbbing lashes. The moment the last lash fell, the crowd surged forward and Sherlock felt the dais shift dangerously. A few shots were fired into the air. The crowd backed off and he was hauled off the dais and away back into the alley. His back was throbbing, burning in steady waves in time with his pulse. Sweat was drying on his face and neck and he was hardly aware of being lead back to a car. A tiny part of his registered that the hands holding him this time were much gentler, firm rather than restraining, and the car he was ushered into was clean and cool. He lay on the soft leather, inhaling the scent of the tan hide. His shirt was tossed to the floor beside him and he was driven off.

 


	14. Riot Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are rapidly approaching the end of this fic. Just one or two more chapters and an epilogue…I hope you all like the rest of it!

 

The musky scent of rich leather and dust hung about his head. Sunshine warmed his hair and the cushion was soft and cool‒a nice contrast to his absolutely _burning_ back. He lay on the long seat where the firm hands had put him, his eyes squeezed shut, too stunned with the pain and noise of what just happened to move yet.

"Sherlock…" John's worried, exhausted voice. John's soft hands dancing nimbly over his wounds. John was hurt too, why wasn't he tending his own wounds? Was this a police car? It smelled too clean. The questions filled his mind and then dissipated like smoke. Did it matter? John was here and they were, at the moment, relatively safe. Away from whips and crowds. Sherlock relaxed a little further into the seat, not putting the pieces together yet.

"They didn't break the skin. That's something, I suppose." Mycroft. Sherlock exhaled loudly into the leather. His eyes were still closed.

"Too little, too late, _Mycroft_." Sherlock's voice croaked and he tried to clear his throat. It was too dry to do even that.

"Here." John was nudging a water bottle at his lips and Sherlock drank.

"It's the least I could do." Mycroft muttered.

"It _is_ the least you did!" Sherlock growled. "You can commandeer a fleet of cars but you can't rescind a simple sentence?"

"Sherlock," his tone was scolding, "that order was beyond me. I told you. That was all The Republic and…" His voice softened and there was a scuffling of fabric. Sherlock guessed he was checking the time on that old pocket watch. "I don't have the influence anymore."

Sherlock grinned. Twice now Mycroft had had to admit that. He hissed out a curse when something freezing yet also hot as the sun tore into one of the welts on his left shoulder.

"Sorry." John. "These need to be cleaned. That whip…they used it on everyone."

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist. He opened his eyes. Mycroft was sitting on the bench seat, looking at Sherlock in concern. John was kneeling beside him, shirtless, fussing over his back with a bottle of antiseptic. "Baker Street." Sherlock said. "Do it there."

John nodded and Sherlock pulled on his wrist, turning him so he could see the damage. His back was streaked with angry red lines. Some were bruising, but skin hadn't broken.

"I'm fine." John muttered.

"The hell you are." Sherlock settled back into the leather. He didn't sleep, but he closed his eyes again as Mycroft's driver brought them home.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's hand was on the back of his neck. Sherlock blinked his eyes open. The engine was humming but the car was still. Stopped. "We're here. Do you require assistance to stand?" His voice was stiff but thawed with warmth. He wasn’t used to offering help, but Sherlock, as usual, was the exception.

Sherlock sniffed and sat up, wincing as the leather creaked. "No." He mumbled. John was gone, already inside, and Sherlock hobbled onto the pavement. The green door and gold numbers and never been such a welcoming sight. The air was cold and brisk and felt good on his tight, hot skin. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft standing off to the side, watching. Sherlock ignored him, instead going through the open flat door and making a face at the stairs.

"Do you require anything?" Mycroft asked when Sherlock was ensconced in the sitting room. John was in his red chair, perched on the edge, sipping water. The crimson marks on his skin looked even worse against the burgundy fabric. "I have my physician on call."

"No, Mycroft. Go away." Sherlock growled, collapsing face first to the sofa and hugging a pillow.

Him and John exchanged some words and Mycroft left.

"I'll clean you up." John said in a quiet voice. "Then you can take a nap."

"What about you?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're‒"

There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson pushed through before either of them could say anything.

One glance at each of their bare backs and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh boys." She looked heartbroken for a moment before she steeled herself and took a deep breath.

"Come on." Her tone was brisk and firm. "Both of you, into Sherlock's room."

"Why?" Sherlock muttered.

"Someone needs to clean you both up."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm a doctor, I can‒"

She crossed her arms and gave him a frosty glare. "You're an _injured_ doctor, John Hamish Watson, and neither of you are in a position to argue. You're both in pain and in need of medical attention, now _move_."

John blinked at her no-nonsense tone. "I can make it to my own room‒"

"‒I'm sure you could run a marathon, dear, but I don't fancy tromping up and down these stairs for the better part of the afternoon. It'll be easier to treat both of you if you’re prone in the same room. The bedroom," she nodded towards the hall, "right now."

John paused for one more moment and Sherlock levered himself off the sofa, growling.

"I brought supplies home." John said to her. "Bathroom cabinet."

She nodded and squeezed both their hands. "You'll feel better soon, I promise." Her voice softened as they both crept down the hall and gingerly lowered down, laying on the made bed.

"People'll talk." John slurred into the quilt. He was so tired now that he was sideways that he was glad Mrs. Hudson had come along and taken control so quickly.

Sherlock smirked. "Sod them."

Mrs. Hudson came into the room with antiseptic and gauze and went to Sherlock's side, leaning over and brushing some hair off his forehead. She looked over his face in an assessing way and kissed his forehead before glancing over his injuries. "Some of these are scraped up a bit, dear. I'll need to clean them off." She poured some antiseptic on a piece of gauze and dabbed the red skin, making him hiss and wince.

"Sorry, love. It needs to be done. I'll go as fast as I can."

John lay beside them, seething in his helplessness as his friend hunched in pain, curling his toes against the sheets. "Once they're clean," John said, "you'll get a cold compress on there and then you can sleep."

"John's right. Just a bit more." She cleaned him off, getting the last of the wounds on his ribs. "There we go." Her voice was soft and motherly and John wondered for the first time if she had any children of her own. Probably, the way she was treating them now. There was a tone of experience in her voice. "You'll be good as new in no time." She said to Sherlock. "Take a nap, now." She put the flat, towel-wrapped cold pack on his back. Sherlock sighed, long and deep into the pillow. She smiled at him, her expression tender, before smoothing the hair off his forehead and coming around the bed with a new piece of gauze. She did the same thing to John, brushing his hair back and glancing over him, that same motherly look in her eyes before she tipped the antiseptic into the cloth and dabbed at a welt on his shoulder. He hissed and gripped the pillow.

"I know lad." She murmured. "It's terrible, absolutely wretched what they did to you both." Her voice cracked and John growled as the medicine bit. "Don't either of you worry about a thing. I'm going to Dorset this weekend, but until then I'll look after each of you."

"Thanks." John winced.

"I'll make you dinner tonight‒how does that sound? Nearly done, dear, just a few more…" She wiped at a few more welts and capped the antiseptic. "There. I'll bring you that cold pack…" She left and returned, placing an identical compress on John's back. He sighed and flipped the pillow over, cradling the cool fabric to his face. "I'll be back to check on you later, dears." She smoothed her hand over his hair, kissed his forehead, and left them in peace.

The rest of the week went by in a slow, steady pace. John stayed home from work and Sherlock even took a break from cases. Molly stopped by with flowers. "I didn't know if…I mean, if it was appropriate. People bring flowers to hospital patients, and you two are hurt, so flowers it is." Lestrade's well wishes had a little more dark humor, as his get well note contained several whip related puns: "I sincerely hope you two get better soon, there's some cases we need to get cracking on. Here's to a snappy recovery!" The note was taped to a bottle of whiskey. John smiled, despite how horrible it was. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Stamford sent extremely soft imported cotton Tshirts in both their sizes and a variety of DVDs. Thoughtful and useful.

* * *

 

The following Saturday, John flipped on open his laptop and logged on to a news blog. The headline _Jiao-Long, laoban of former London, killed in assassination_ was plastered across _The Source,_ one of the few sites that was still up and running and thusfar had seemed more or less truthful about world events.

"Oh great." John clicked the link and was treated to a clearly hastily thrown together report detailing an explosion and some insider (supposedly) information that five people might be dead. He surfed over to a different independent news site. They were reporting similar news, though they were implying it was an inside job by The Republic itself. Yet a third site, a blog ran by some underground group, were also doing a live chat with someone who was claiming to be at the former palace that very moment. One thing was clear: _something_ had happened and people were dead because of it. John got up and turned on the television. Nothing whatsoever was being reported on the attack. He changed the channel, flipping to the news stations. One was reporting on some kind of music festival going on in old Spain and another was touching on local topics. John threw the remote control down on the chair in disgust. Long gone were the days of the BBC and real reporting. All the news stations now were obviously controlled by The Republic.

A faint explosion sounded outside and John peered out the window into the cool morning, looking up the road towards Marylebone. Smoke. Through the smoke, figures running and he could have sworn he saw orange flames flickering. A wave of goosebumps trickled over his body from head to toe, like someone pouring ice water very slowly over his head. A rush of adrenaline surged his veins and John took a breath. His brain snapped into command mode. Sherlock was in the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson downstairs‒no wait, she was in Dorset this weekend. Safe. Instinctively he knew they weren't safe on Baker Street anymore. Whatever that something going on up the road was, John knew it was only a matter of time before it trickled this way.

"Sherlock!" John strode through the kitchen, not even knocking as he pushed into the detective's room.

"Hm?" Sherlock was at his wardrobe, fiddling with his socks.

"C'mon. We have to go."

"What? Where?" Sherlock instantly snapped to attention at John's tone and body language. "Get some things together‒pack a bag. It's not safe here‒"

He started to move for the door, to grab his own things, when a strong hand landed on his arm. He winced.

"John." Sherlock looked into his face. "What's happening."

"The laoban was assassinated and Marylebone's in flames."

Sherlock's eyes widened and John pulled away. "Be downstairs in five minutes. No‒three minutes!"

John ran up to his bedroom, ignoring his stinging back, full soldier now. He threw a few essentials into a backpack and went to shoulder it, then thought better and held it instead, thundering down to the ground level. It was pure luck that Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her sister. John guessed they weren't rioting in Dorset.

Surely the elder Holmes had access to vehicles or information that he didn't? John pulled his phone out of his pocket as yells echoed up and down the street outside. It rang twice.

_"Dr. Watson?"_

"Mycroft‒did you hear about the laoban?"

_"I did. Unfortunate."_ A pause.

"Unfortu‒that's all you have to say?!" Something exploded up the street, the walls vibrated. John opened the door and stuck his head out. About three buildings away to the south, a car was on fire. "Jesus. We're in the middle of a riot here." John tried not to sound panicky.

Sherlock appeared at his elbow, holding his bag. "Mycroft?" He asked. John nodded and Sherlock held his hand out for the phone. John gave it over.

"Mycroft, send us a car or give us a place to hide out and don't say you can't."

_"I'm afraid I can't, Sherlock."_

Part of the flaming car exploded. People ran out of their flats in terror. A group of young people, their faces obscured by scarves, ran by, flinging Molotov cocktails. The flaming bottles glinted in the air before crashing through windows. Cries of "Jiao-Long is dead!" echoed in the distance.

"Are they happy or upset?" John groused.

"What do you mean you can't!" Sherlock yelled. "Of course you can. Do it."

_"Sherlock, I'm nowhere near the city."_

"Then send someone who _is_. The Tube won't be running and there are no cabs anywhere." They started walking fast down Baker Street. The burning car had more or less burned out, leaving half the Volvo crisp and red and the other half charred to a grey husk. Heading north was definitely out of bounds, as flames were licking up over the buildings on Marylebone. The palace was south though, and any idiot would know to stay away from that whole area. The center of the city would probably be a bad idea too. West, then. Maybe they could cut north if need be…John's soldier brain was in full gear, scanning and weighing possibilities, analyzing risk and taking precaution.

_"I'll see what I can do."_ The line went dead.

"Useless!" Sherlock hissed. John snatched the phone out of his hand before he could throw it.

"This way." They turned, heading for Hyde Park.

"Do you have a plan, Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Sort of."

"Oh good."

Another gang of screaming youths ran by. More booms echoed behind them.

"Care to share?"

"Right now it consists of 'get the hell out of town.' If you'd like to add anything, feel free."

They were walking quickly, keeping a sharp eye out for any more flying bottles or violence.

A giant fire was burning in the center of Hyde Park. People were gathered around it, chucking collars and leashes in the blaze.

"Can't say I entirely disagree with that sentiment." Sherlock muttered, eying the roaring charred mass.

"What did Mycroft say about the car?" John asked. They sidestepped a group helping a bleeding, dazed woman and kept walking.

"He's going to see what he can do."

"And that means…?"

"A car could pull up beside us any moment, or we could be walking for a good long while."

Another explosion behind, this one almost painfully close, sent them scurrying along faster.

* * *

 

"It's working, Jim." Sebastian Moran was stationed at the top of a three story building across from Hyde Park, watching through the smoky haze as John and Sherlock scurried along the pavement. "They're heading right where you want them to." Sebastian smirked, watching the duo approach the far end of the park.

_"Beautiful, Seb. Give the command."_ Jim's voice was smug.

Sebastian glanced down, catching sight of the black town car parked a few buildings over. He knew the driver, another of Moriarty's slaves, was waiting for his signal. Sebastian waved and the car pulled into the debris-strewn road, creeping past the rushing citizens and police. It pulled up to the corner right as Sherlock and John reached the intersection. They didn't hesitate to get in and the car pulled away.

* * *

 

Moriarty fell back on the sofa in his hideout under the warehouse, laughing hysterically. It had worked. It was such a stupid, simple plan, but it had worked. If only that idiot Mycroft didn't have a habit of abducting people with his big black cars that he thought he looked _so_ posh in, this plan would have never worked. Sherlock, his wonderful Sherlock, was coming back. John…well, he could be disposed of easily enough. Or better yet, he could just keep them both as slaves. This time, he would keep Sherlock for himself. Moran could have John, or kill John, or do whatever the hell he wanted with him. Moriarty was keeping Sherlock, no doubt about that.


	15. Liar

Sherlock and John relaxed in the comfy car's leather backseat. Sherlock was texting Mrs. Hudson to tell her about the riot and John closed his eyes, adrenaline still humming in his veins. They'd probably be in the car for a while. John suspected they were going to Mycroft's house in the countryside. It was probably quieter there. Safer. It was nice to not be blindfolded this time. The windows were tinted inside and out‒probably some sort of former government safety thing, and the driver was blocked off from view. No doubt another security measure. They both rested easy for the next twenty minutes, sitting in a sort of relieved silence. Sherlock's phone chimed.

_Where are you? My driver can't find you. ‒MH_

Sherlock frowned, texting back. _We're in the car now. Explain. ‒SH_

_No, brother, I'm fairly certain you're not. What is your location?_

The car stopped and John, oblivious to the conversation, glanced up and looked out the window. They certainly weren't near any kind of estate he could see. The view out the darkened window was of some abandoned warehouses. What…?

"John." Sherlock sounded mortified. "I think we‒"

The doors were yanked open and both men were ripped out of the vehicle. John flew into 'fight' mode. The horrified look on Sherlock's face had been enough. He didn't know what, but something was definitely wrong. It was just like when he'd been abducted the first time by Mycroft's people, but something told him that these were not Mycroft's people. "Wait!" He yelled. "Mycroft knows about us‒" He was stabbed in the neck, the needle piercing his skin and going deep. A haze sank over him almost instantly. Whatever was in that needle, it was powerful. He blinked and his muscles turned to jelly as he sagged to the earth. "Sherlock…?" The detective was slumping, falling out of the hard hands that had tore them from the car. An expression of terror like John had never seen on the man clouded his pale blue eyes and he looked over at John beseechingly. 'I'm sorry.' He mouthed, his eyes pinching in a guilt. That was the last thing John remembered.

* * *

 

"Oh, I think your new pet is starting to wake up, Seb."

An unfamiliar though excited voice spoke somewhere to John's right. It felt like he was coming out of a dream, swimming up from a deep almost dead level of consciousness. He opened his eyes. It wasn't terribly bright in the room and he shifted, scrabbling to gather his bearings. He was inside, sitting on the floor, naked as the day he was born. His hands were restrained behind him in what felt like normal police cuffs. His neck was hurting from the sloppy injection and stiff from his head hanging on his shoulder. His back felt like one big bruise. He winced and grimaced and opened his eyes a little wider.

The room was small, with a concrete floor and pale walls covered with chipping paint. A desk and an open laptop was off to one side and a couple sofas were against the walls. John glanced up and saw he was chained to a pipe sticking out of the floor. More pipes were to his left and tethered to these was Sherlock, facing the thick pipe, bound by his wrists. He was also naked, blindfolded and gagged. A chain hobbled his legs and his welted back was bare to the room. This didn't look good.

There were two men in the room with them. A tall, muscular man with a tiger tattoo curving down one arm was seated on a sofa. The other man was shorter, thinner, and looked more or less forgettable, save for the manic glint in his dark eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" John asked, though he had a guess.

"Sherlock never talked about us? I'm hurt." Irish, his voice sounded. "Jim Moriarty." He gestured to his chest, "and Sebastian Moran."

John clenched his jaw, sitting up a little straighter.

"I think he _has_ heard of us, Seb."

"What do you want?" John said stiffly.

"Just what's mine."

"Sherlock is not yours."

"Ah, so you do know about our history, how I miss my Sherlock more than anything. I thought of putting up flyers like one would for any lost pet. What’s one slave to The Republic?" Jim grabbed a metal collar off the desktop and moved behind the detective. Sherlock stiffened away from the proximity. "There, there." Jim soothed, petting the man's hair. "You're home now…" he snapped the collar around Sherlock's neck and he ducked down, trying to hide. "No, no, Sherlock. Don’t be that way. If I take off the blindfold and gag, will you be a good boy?"

Sherlock nodded and Jim obliged, removing the offending items. Sherlock glanced around, then saw John and looked away, his neck and face flushing with embarrassment.

"You didn't take very good care of him for me, John, did you? He's all fed up, but _this._ " Moriarty ran a finger down the detective's back, skimming the bruised flesh. Sherlock flinched away. "He was always a disobedient pet." He smacked Sherlock's backside and John felt sick. There didn’t seem to be a way out of this. The only person they had to rely on was Mycroft, who only knew that they hadn't gotten into the right car. If anything, Mycroft could attempt to track their phones‒which were no doubt off or smashed somewhere. John cursed his own stupidity. They had been in the wrong car for almost half an hour doing absolutely nothing.

"You'll be paid of course." Jim said to John. "£50,000? Is that what we agreed on?"

Sherlock lifted his head slowly, horror written across his features as he looked at Moriarty, then at John, an expression of such deep betrayal on his face that John could almost feel it.

"What?" John blinked at Jim. "What are you talking about?"

"Your fee for taking care of my property. For going to that auction house and buying him back for me." Jim said. "You don't need to keep it a secret anymore, John. You've brought him back now, just like you said you would."

"I don't know what you're talking about." John said, catching on to what Jim was doing and feeling disgusted by it. He turned to Sherlock. "He's lying‒I would never ever trick you like that Sherlock!"

"John, stop pretending." Jim said, sounding so genuine that John wanted to spit in rage.

"Bullshit!" John sneered. "We didn't agree on anything! Sherlock, I've never seen him or spoken to him before, I swear!"

Sherlock stared at John, then at Jim, his mouth open in a sort of sad horrified shock as he tried to work out what was right.

"Sherlock." John dropped his voice lower. "C'mon, why would I do that to you?"

"Because you're insane like me." Jim chimed in.

"Shutup!" John barked at him. Jim clapped his hands and laughed, delighted with the chaos of it all. "Ah, look at you two! Little Sherlock is so confused. Poor boy."

John really wished he had his gun on him. He would pump an entire clip into Moriarty and sleep fine that night…if he could just get out of these damned cuffs…

"Oh look at you, always the brave soldier." Jim crouched down in front of John, well out of reach. "I can just see the hamster running in the wheel as you try to figure out a way to escape. Don't bother. It's not happening. Sherlock is mine, though I do love your breed, Johnny. Loyal. Just like Seb, here. I think you two will get along." Moriarty stood and pulled a key out of the pocket of his jeans. He grabbed a length of chain off the desk and unlocked Sherlock's hands overhead, keeping his wrists firmly tied. He locked the chain onto his collar and tugged. "Get acquainted with your new master, John. I need to teach Sherlock a lesson about running away."

Sherlock dug his heels into the ground, but Moriarty pulled savagely on the chain, jerking him forward. "Don't believe him, Sherlock." John pleaded. They left the room and John took a deep breath. The only way he could think of escaping these cuffs was by breaking his thumb. Not an appealing prospect, especially considering he was a qualified surgeon. But break out of the cuffs and then what? The guy on the sofa had been Sherlock's previous owner. He was the reason Sherlock had been so timid and skittish and malnourished when John first met him. A slow burning rage ignited deep in John's core. These bastards had tortured Sherlock and hell knew how many other slaves. They were part of the reason the world had gone to shit and London was burning. Seb was watching him from the sofa, making no move to get closer.

"You were Sherlock's other owner?" John said carefully.

"Yeah. Jim gave him to me. I saved his life."

"How kind of him. What does Jim do now? Neither of you are slaves."

"Nope. He sells slaves. Imports and exports‒he makes a lot of money."

"And you're his right-hand man."

"Yup." Seb stood up. Jeez, he was tall. "And now you're mine."

If Sebastian decided to keep him, would anyone even know if he was missing? John frantically ran through a list of people he knew. Stamford. John didn't keep in overly close contact with Stamford. He might not realize anything was amiss until John and Sherlock were halfway across the world. Harry. Yeah right. Molly? John didn't know her that well, but it was possible she'd come by their flat. Once it was safe. Greg and the Yarders. Maybe. Once they asked Sherlock for help on a case and got no reply, they might come sniffing. But what evidence would they find that they had been kidnapped? Baker Street was probably burned to the ground by now. Sherlock had texted Mrs. Hudson to tell her about the riot, but she wouldn't know they had been taken either. The last person John had spoken to was Mycroft about his maybe sending a car. Mycroft Holmes was their best hope. That was terrifying.

* * *

 

"Oh, Sherlock." Jim's voice was all regret. He had Sherlock standing, fastened to the wall. "Why did you leave? Are we not compatible?"

"You're insane." Sherlock said.

"So? My biggest mistake was giving you to Seb. Poor stupid Seb. I see why you get along so well with your friend Johnny. It must be so funny…"

Sherlock stiffened at John's name.

"You really didn't suspect him, did you?" Moriarty said. "You thought he was genuine. I bet he pretended to not even know who I was."

It couldn't be true….right? John wouldn't‒or would he? Fifty thousand was a lot of money, and John wasn't exactly rich.

"He did my bidding and he'll be paid handsomely. Forget about him now. In the meantime…" Jim came over to him and rested a hand on his ribs, getting in his space. Sherlock tried to flinch away. "You and I will be spending a lot more time together, getting to know each other." Sherlock wanted to throw up. "No more Seb. He couldn't handle you. He's not smart like we are. No, you’re my prize, Sherlock." Jim grinned. "We'll have fun together."

* * *

 

Seb stood up and came over to John, looming. John thought fast. He had to take a chance‒he had to get them both out of this place and somewhere safe. How though? How could he get a few precious seconds alone to try and break out of these cuffs and get Sherlock and get out?

"Is there any water?" He asked up at the man.

Seb blinked.

"I'm really thirsty." Not a lie. "The injection‒the drugs took a lot out of me."

Seb stared at him and for moment John was sure it wasn't going to work. It wasn't the best ruse, but‒

"Okay." Seb left the room and John stared at the door for approximately one second before wiggling his hands in the cuffs. It was now or never. He bent his thumb and applied pressure, clenching his teeth to prepare for the pain. This was going to hurt like a bitch. The bone throbbed in protest. John kept pushing, pushing, _pushing…snap_ ! The throbbing spread through his other fingers and up his arm‒a poison tsunami of groaning, vomit-inducing pain. John took a few deep breaths, feeling chilled all of a sudden as a cold sweat broke out over his body. It hurt for sure, but he could handle it. He tugged his useless hand out of the cuffs and stood, dazed. The laptop was on the desk. He hurried over, ruffling through papers and folders.

"Phone…phone…" he muttered. There had to be a phone somewhere. He was about to sit and send a frantic email when he instead opened a drawer. A black mobile phone, sitting as pretty as a trophy on top of a stack of pages. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. No, nevermind, the rescue helicopter landing in the dust to pick him up after he'd been shot in Kandahar‒ _that_ was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. But this phone came a very close second.

John snatched it and dialed Mycroft. The moment he hit 'send,' Sebastian came back in the room bearing a bottle of water. He froze in the doorway. If the situation wasn't so dire, John would have laughed at the expression of pure confusion and utter befuddlement on his face. Ever the soldier though, it didn't take Seb long to react. He charged John, but not before the wounded doctor had time to pick up the feather-light laptop and smash it over the man's head.

"Fuckin' Macbook…" John growled. It was like flinging a sheet of paper at a leaping lion. The one time in life when a nine pound laptop would be useful. John swung his left arm, the metal cuff swinging right into the side of Seb's head. The taller man growled, pressing his hand to the bleeding spot on his skull.

* * *

 

"Don't be like this, Sherlock. We're two halves of a whole." Moriarty was still in Sherlock's space, trying in his own disturbing way to soothe the detective. Sherlock kneed him in the groin and Moriarty crumpled.

"Oh!" His face registered pain, definitely pain, but also pleasure. Whether at the stimulation, such as it was, or that Sherlock was fighting back, he didn't know.

"Oh there's the fighting Sherlock I know. It's good to see some fire in you. But that was bad, puppy, a bad, bad move." Jim staggered to his feet. "I hope you like those beautiful welts painted on your skin. When I get you home, you're getting another round of those and what's more," He grinned at Sherlock, his lip curling. "I'll hurt you where no one can see." He was unlocking Sherlock's tether when a huge crash sounded on the other side of the wall.

"Jim!" Seb's voice, desperate and pained. The yell was cut off in another crash. Moriarty froze for a moment before Sherlock lashed out, throwing his cuffed hands over Moriarty's head and yanking backwards, choking him as hard as he could.

"Sherl-k!" He gurgled. Sherlock pulled tighter. "Shr…stop!" His arms waved as he tried to get balance, then he punched back. There wasn't much force behind the hit, as his was losing air fast. Sherlock eased off just a fraction.

"Tell me the truth." He hissed. "Does John work for you?"

Silence, though he was still alive.

"Tell me!" Sherlock jerked his hands.

"Shrl…"

He felt a snap in Jim's neck, and then the body grew heavy and slumped to the ground.

* * *

 

Sebastian Moran was like a machine. A tall, tattooed machine that just wouldn't stop coming. John had speed on his side, but Moran had brute strength. So far John had hit him with the laptop, his handcuffs, and even one of the metal drawers from the desk. Both men were bleeding. John had a bruised eye and a gash in his skull, just behind his temple that was gushing crimson down his neck. Moran was bleeding in a few places on his head, not that it seemed to slow him down. Moran rushed him once again. John dodged, then grabbed the desk chair in his one good hand. He swung it hard, clipping Moran's neck with two of the heavy plastic wheels. He lost balance, fell, and bashed his head on the edge of the desk. Finally, finally he was still. John dropped the chair with a clatter and sank to the floor, sweating and panting. His whole arm was burning. The office was in shambles. Papers were flung everywhere and there were bits of computer parts on the floor. The only thing untouched was the mobile phone, still sitting on the desk where John had left it. John knew he needed to move, to see if that call to Mycroft went through. Moriarty was still somewhere with Sherlock doing God knew what. John rested his head on the wall, allowing himself exactly ten seconds to regroup and get his breath back, when a posh, dry voice spoke from the doorway.

"I do hope I'm not too late."

John lifted his head and opened his eyes, gazing at the disapproving figure of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft glanced down, taking in his nudity with an eyeroll. John covered himself as best he could. "By about an hour, Mycroft." He groused. "Your brother is somewhere‒"

"He's found. He's safe." Mycroft glanced around the messy room in distaste, taking in the prone figure of Moran. "Can't say the same for this fellow." He looked at John. "I have a car waiting to bring you both to hospital."

"As long as it's actually your car this time…" John staggered to his feet. "Let me see him first."

A blanket was thrown over his body and he limped after Mycroft's people and entered the room Sherlock had been taken to. It was right next door for pete's sake. A body was sprawled on the floor, a sheet over it. Moriarty. Dead.

"Sherlock?"

The detective was huddled in a big orange shock blanket, staring down at the body. What appeared to be Mycroft's suit coat was draped over his shoulders. From Mycroft, that expression of care was the equivalent of a huge hug and gross sobbing. "Hey." John said. He came to stand beside Sherlock. "You alright?"

John wasn't expecting a long answer, but he also wasn't expecting the way Sherlock moved away from him, like John was an offensive smell he was trying to escape.

"He was lying." John said. Sherlock looked up at him, mistrust and a sort of feralness filling his eyes. It was similar to the look he'd had when John brought him home all those weeks ago. It hurt to see it there again and John ached at the sight.

A paramedic appeared at John's elbow. "Sir," she said, her Scottish accent soft, "you both should really go to hospital. You've lost a lot of blood."

John looked over at Mycroft, who was watching them both, a keen expression on his face. John wanted to explain to Sherlock, to explain how Moriarty was a lying sack of rodent excrement, but not here. Not with an audience‒especially Sherlock's brother. The paramedics lead them both away.

 


	16. His Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapters to be posted today.

Despite the riot and the amount of fires everywhere, 221B was miraculously intact. A cab dropped John and Sherlock off at the threshold after they had each spent two nights in hospital 'for observation'. John peered around. There was evidence of the riot .The street was streaked with black from the burning red car. More trash than usual lined the gutters. A few windows were boarded up, including Speedy's, but the little café was still open. John's hand was in a hard cast. Stitches crusted his skull. He was sore all over but it was good to be home…assuming Sherlock would still let him live there.

They exchanged a look, relieved yet tense. Their home was still standing but they hadn't yet spoken about Moriarty's deceit. John wondered if he would even be able to call 221 his home anymore after today. He had to make Sherlock believe it wasn't true.

Mrs. Hudson flung the door open. "You two! If it's not the police calling at three am than it's something like this!" Her eyes were shining with tears as she pulled them both into a hug, minding their backs. "I'm so glad you're both safe‒oh goodness John‒your hand!"

"It's fine. We're fine." John said. "It'll take more than a riot and getting kidnapped by a _lying_ madman to stop us." He emphasized the word 'lying,' catching Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock grinned faintly and Mrs. Hudson bustled them both upstairs, fussing and making tea and talking all the while about how "Dorset was very nice, but _a riot!_ I never thought I'd live to see the day…"

John was watching Sherlock. The detective grabbed his violin case and sank into his green chair, popping the clasps and gently extracting his instrument. Mrs. Hudson brought them two mugs of tea, then said something about getting snacks from the café and left. The cessation of her chatter was startling, somehow. It was too quiet.

"Sherlock, it's not true. You have to know it's not true." John pleaded.

"John‒"

"‒No. Let me say this."

Sherlock fell quiet and John took a breath. "When I went to that auction house with Mike, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Everything‒London‒this whole world was new to me. I felt foreign in my own city. I didn't have much to call my own, not even a real home. It was an impulse, taking you in, but it was _my_ choice and it was one of the best choices I ever made." He was quiet for a second. "Moriarty was a liar. I would never do something so horrible to you, Sherlock." He went quiet again and glanced over at his flatmate, surprised to see the detective smirking at him in an arrogant, knowing way.

"What?" John frowned.

"John, do you think I don’t know that Moriarty was a liar and a bastard? He would have said anything to try and turn me against you but he was doomed from the start because as far as I'm concerned, nothing short of one of our deaths will break our bond of friendship."

John blinked at him, touched.

"I was his slave. I know exactly how the manipulative arse operated." Sherlock murmured.

"Oh. Of course." John said faintly. He sat down across from the man, tense and relieved and looking around for something to do with his hands. Fortunately his mug of tea was sitting right in front of him. He took it up and sipped.

"Moriarty was lying about you taking money in exchange for leading him to me." Sherlock said.

"Yes, good." Relief washed through John and he sighed, a bit surprised at just how worried he'd been that Sherlock would have shouted and accused and thrown him bodily from the flat. "Yes." John said. "You’re absolutely right."

"I know." Sherlock pulled the bow out and ran his gaze over the hair.

"Did you have any doubts?"

"I…did."

"What changed your mind?"

Sherlock grinned, throwing open the doors of his fixed, glorious palace and letting the memory movies flood forth:

_John's look of horror at the auction house‒buying him clothing when he already had so little money‒staying up with him one fevered night to ensure he didn’t' die in his sleep‒opening his home to a complete stranger and his constant 'we're flatmates!' ‒A tired doctor defending him in the Chief Super's office risking bodily harm himself as he spoke up for Sherlock who no longer had a voice‒A bright, inexpressibly happy smile on John's face as they galloped through the park at dusk._

Moriarty had made a huge error while he was calculating John Watson, one many people made. He had underestimated him. Most people in John's position would have gladly taken the cash in exchange for a slave and walked out of that warehouse without a thought. Moriarty assumed that Sherlock would believe him, would believe that John was a liar. What was one slave for fifty thousand pounds? That was his error. Moriarty was right about one thing though. John was loyal. Most people would have sold Sherlock out and taken the cash. But not John. Never John.

"I just know." Sherlock stood and brought the violin to his shoulder, playing a brisk Mozart concerto.

 

The End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, but I honestly thought this was a good place to leave them. They're happy and safe(ish) and together. At this point, I thought any real doubt on Sherlock's part would denigrate the trust and friendship that had been building throughout the story. Do you agree?


	17. Epilogue

_Hi John!_

_It's Alex Bailey. Remember‒you and your friend helped me find my family in Massachusetts? I'm back home now, and though London was just lovely (up until The Fall), I don't think I'll be studying abroad again anytime soon._

_I'm really writing this to you because I didn't get the chance to say thank you before I left. Without you and Sherlock I don't think I ever would have made it home. At least, not for a long while. And by then, who knows what could have happened to me? So, thank you. From the very bottom of my heart. Could you tell Sherlock too? I don't have his email. If either of you ever need a favor or there's anything at all I can help you with (even if it's just a couch to sleep on if you're ever on the East coast), don't hesitate to contact me. It's not much, I know, but… I hope you both are doing well and are safe and that Sherlock isn't driving you too crazy. Again, thank you._

_Sincerely,_

_Alex Bailey._

John smiled and opened the attached photo. It was Alex, smiling, and if the similar facial features were anything to go by, her sister that John had managed to contact. Nice. He closed the laptop just as Sherlock let out a yip of surprise from the kitchen and a cloud of green smoke poured into the sitting room.

"It's fine!" Sherlock yelled. Things rattled and banged and John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't worry!" Sherlock assured him. A puff of downy little feathers billowed into the sitting room after the smoke, accompanied by the distinct odor of burned hair. This elicited another noise of surprise from Sherlock. "Under control! Don't come in here yet…"

John grinned, leaning back comfortably in his chair as Mrs. Hudson banged on the ceiling and the sounds of a fire extinguisher ripped through the air. Crazy? Not at all. This was home, and therefore perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to all my awesome reviewers and readers. A particular thank you to seaholly for leaving such wonderful, thoughtful comments. I hope you all enjoyed the story :D

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome!


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